


Like Peas and Carrots

by hutchynstarsk



Series: Like Starsky and Hutch [1]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Bromance, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Mushy, Romantic Friendship, Teen Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26600977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: Uploading this because Google Sites won't let me keep it there!
Series: Like Starsky and Hutch [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935154





	Like Peas and Carrots

**Author's Note:**

> Uploading this because Google Sites won't let me keep it there!




| 

### Like Peas and Carrots

| 

This is a story about Starsky and Hutch meeting as teenagers. 

Thank you to Monika for the title! :)

Nicol Tyler drew this beautiful picture for this story...

[](https://sites.google.com/site/alliesfanfiction/like-peas-and-carrots/Like_Peas_and_Carrots_by_nicoltyler.jpg?attredirects=0)

  


Like Peas and Carrots

chapter one

Hutch was carrying his book bag up towards school when he saw the fight going down. 

Two against one. 

“Hey—knock it off!” He dropped his book bag and dived into the fight. It might be only his first week at this school, but he knew an unfair fight when he saw one. That curly headed guy was getting pounded.

“Fight. Fight.” Several kids were shouting, and the circle closed around them to hide them from any teachers who might care. Hutch yanked the closest guy off and threw a punch. The guy punched back—Hutch threw another blow. He wasn’t a great fighter—too lanky and clumsy—but he was big for his age, and strong.

Behind him, he heard the other fighters—a blow that sounded hard, and a great ‘oof’ of breath, and then someone fell, his head landing near Ken’s feet. 

The curly haired guy yanked the other fighter away from Hutch, clocked him across the face so that he went down, and then glared at Hutch, breathing hard, blood smeared across his mouth. “Don’t need your help.” He spat on the ground—it was bloody—and swaggered away, shoving aside anyone who didn’t part quickly enough.

Hutch looked around, but there was no adult around. He moved into the crowd, wondering what he’d gotten himself into. He barely knew anyone in school yet, could hardly find his correct classes on his own, and he’d just gotten into a big fight. He rubbed his arm a little, where he’d taken a hit, and kept his head down and headed to class, hoping he hadn’t ticked off anyone too important.

It was nice to be unknown around school for once—not noticed for his father’s money, or anything else. He hoped he hadn’t changed that.

#

Hutch kept his eyes open for the other fighters that day. He’d gotten a good look at all three, even though it had been brief for the one guy. At any rate, the bruises and / or blood ought to give a hint.

He saw one in shop—great, a big dark-haired hulk with a surly face and a letter jacket. Football players. Greeaat. He saw the other two in English—also in letter jackets. What the heck had he gotten himself into?

The curly haired guy had a sullen look on his face. His lip was swelling and he leaned forward on his desk, resting his chin on his crossed arms. The other guy (who was bigger, but apparently not tougher), the one Hutch fought, saw Hutch, and sent him a glare. 

On the way out of class when the bell rang, the curly-haired guy knocked his shoulder against Hutch, shoving him aside. “Don’t need help,” he growled. He gave Hutch a fiery-eyed look, and swaggered away, down the hall.

He saw them, all three of them, lined up in the football field on his way walking home. The other football players were getting yelled at by the coach. “You’ll keep your personal problems off the field! Do you hear me!” The coach stopped in front of the curly-haired guy, and yelled into his face. “That goes for you especially, Starsky!!”

Starsky…Well, now Hutch knew one of their names. 

He was beginning to wish he’d minded his own business.

#

“You want to go out to the old swimming hole?” said Julius, later. He and Maurice and Claudia were Hutch’s first maybe-friends. They worked together on the school newspaper. When Hutch moved out here, he hadn’t wanted to get involved in anything. He’d wanted to sit and cry in his room, and plan how to run away back to Duluth. But he’d been involved in baseball and the newspaper and other things in his old school, so his aunt and uncle had told the principal that, of course, he’d want to be involved here, too. It wasn’t baseball season, but the newspaper thing stuck. At least they seemed fairly welcoming.

“Yeah, sure,” said Hutch, shouldering his book bag, although it seemed too warm for swimming to him.

“Great! Do you need a suit? We usually just strip down to our boxers.” He looked rather as though he thought this made him roguish and worldly.

“Uh, that’s fine,” said Hutch. “What about Claudia?”

“Oh, she doesn’t come. Needs to get home to help her mother after school, you know.”

“Yeah.” _Or maybe she just says that so you don’t realize she feels left out…_

“Hey, can I help you with that?” He caught up with Claudia and offered to carry her books. 

She pushed the glasses up her nose, and smiled shyly, looking down.

“No, no, I’m fine. Thank you,” she mumbled, clutching her books more tightly against her sweater. She was a big girl, and while Hutch would never look at her, or any other girl ever again with interest—he had eyes only for his poor Jenny—he hated to see her so self-conscious.

“All right, well, take care. See you tomorrow!” He raised a hand in farewell. Ducking her head down, Claudia hurried away from the school. He watched her with some concern.

“Is she okay?”

The boys exchanged looks. “Uh, yeah, sure,” said Julius, with a rather superior, laughing tone.

“What?” _What am I missing?_ He looked between them.

“She likes you,” said Maurice. He was skinny and dark haired. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Poor kid.”

_Already?_ thought Hutch. “But…we just met.”

Julius shrugged. “Sometimes girls are like that. We shouldn’t have said anything—right, Maurice?” He sent his friend a glare. “Just ignore it, and it’ll go away.”

On the one hand, Hutch felt a bit annoyed that they’d think he could never like Claudia. On the other, he felt so tired and sad inside, and he didn’t want to argue, he didn’t want any girls to notice or think about him ever again. He just nodded, head down, and walked after the other two, keeping his thoughts to himself, glum and private, on the way to the swimming hole. He followed in their footsteps, and only looked up when he realized they were talking about him.

“So I heard there was a fight out front this morning,” said Julius. “Wonder who started it?”

“Yeah, I can’t believe we missed it! That’s what we get for arriving early, I guess.”

“Probably that Starsky,” said Julius. He said ‘Starsky’ as if it were a bad word.

“Whatever happened will be around school tomorrow,” said Maurice. “Doesn’t seem right we should have to wait so long, though. I mean, we are reporters. We ought to know these things first, not last!”

“Well, if we weren’t so busy writing the news…”

Their sneakers scuffed ahead through the fallen leaves. 

_How they can want to swim in this weather…_ thought Hutch. 

He’d thought all of California was warm and balmy. Instead, this northern part where his aunt and uncle lived contained plenty of forests, no beaches, and lots of chilly days.

He pulled his jacket tighter, and wondered if he ought to tell them now that he’d been in the fight. After all, if they’d know tomorrow anyway, they’d probably be annoyed he hadn’t said anything. Then again, the rumor mill might get things mixed up. He might be surprised to hear what had happened tomorrow. He might not even be mentioned.

“Um, this Starsky.” He caught up to them. “Is he trouble?” _Like I have to ask._

Maurice glanced at him. “Uh, yeah. He’s a football player. He used to be one of the more popular guys in high school—a good athlete, popular with the girls. But lately, he’s been coming into school wearing the same outfit for days, arriving late, getting into fights—and he smells bad! It’s like he quit trying. His girl broke up with him recently, but that doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to go off the rails.”

“Some guys just can’t handle being single.” Julius shook his head as if he felt sorry for those without the experience of being single.

“I heard he’s going to flunk.”

“I heard his uncle’s going to send him to military school. They’ll beat him into shape.”

“Military school, nothing. Military jail, more like it.”

“No, you’ve got to be part of the military before you can go to their jail.”

“I was making a point!”

They stopped talking then, and drew towards the left of the road. “This is it—it’s an old abandoned quarry that filled with water,” explained Julius, glancing back at Hutch. “We come out here to swim in the fall. The jocks usually hog it during summer.”

They neared the water; Hutch could smell it in the cool, clean air, and hear the lap of waves hitting the water. He’d been a sea scout when he was younger, and the sound of water made him a little homesick for the days when he was a kid on the water, with nothing but his next merit badge and his dog to worry about.

Julius started pulling off his shoes. “Ah, nothing like a nice, cool dip on a fall day! You’ll get used to the cold, Hutch. It’s not so bad once you hop in.”

From the water came a splash.

“Get out of here!” growled a familiar, thickly accented voice. “G’wan! Don’t want any company!” There was a splashing sound. Hutch and the other two boys looked around, and finally saw him, out in the water—a pair of feet. He must have dived down.

He came up a moment later, drew back an arm—and flung a stone. “Get away, I said!”

“You’re an asshole, Starsky!” yelled Julius. “And you can’t make us go!” He dodged the stone, and ran for cover, holding his hands over his head.

Hutch and Maurice looked at each other, and moved to stand behind trees. 

“This is idiotic,” hissed Julius. “First he’s a bully at school, now he thinks he can take over the hole—in fall, no less!”

“Autumn.”

“Shut up, Maurice!”

Another stone hit the tree Hutch was standing behind. “Get out of here!”

“It’s no use, Julius. Just…let’s get out of here. He’s got a temper like a bad bear.”

“Oh, there are good bears?”

“There might be! I’m just saying, let’s get out of here. Maybe he won’t know who it was tomorrow…”

“I still say…” Julius, also hiding behind a tree, and scuffed his foot on the ground. “Aha!” His expression grew gleeful, almost malevolent. “Maur—right near you! How did you miss that? His clothes! Quick, grab them and let’s get out of here.”

Maurice laughed. He dashed forward, grabbed the handful of cloth, and dove for cover. A barrage of curses and stones chased him.

“I’m comin’ out! Put ‘em back or I’ll nail your hides to the wall!”

_That’ll be interesting…_ thought Hutch. He couldn’t help smiling. The guy in the lake seemed so mad; it was kind of funny to imagine him stuck there without his clothes.

He fell into step with Julius and Maurice on their way back, the two of them laughing and high-fiving each other.

“Let’s dump them in the garbage.”

“Let’s burn them.”

“Or keep them for a souvenir.”

“No, then he’d be able to trace it back to us.”

“Oh, man, this is rich revenge!”

“Uh…guys…” said Hutch, hurrying, and trying not to trip over his own feet or the underbrush. “Do you think we really ought to…keep them? I mean, a joke’s a joke, but it’s cold out, and…”

They turned to stare at him, incensed. “What, you’re turning chicken now? Don’t you get it? It’s our chance!”

“Chance?” said Hutch stupidly, stopping because they had stopped. They were glaring at him, closing ranks. He felt out of the loop, and wondered why they looked so angry.

“Yeah, man! Stick it to the jocks. Come on. They pick on us all the time. And Starsky’s an ass—everyone knows it. He deserves what’s coming to him.”

“So…he’s supposed to walk home in no clothes in this weather…and who knows how far away he lives…just because he’s a jock?”

“Now you’re getting it, new guy.” Julius reached out and gave him a sock on the arm. “Jocks must pay.”

“Uh, you guys…I don’t know how to say this…but I’m a jock.”

“You are not.”

“I am. In the summer, I play baseball. I love it.” Even as he said it, he realized how much he did. If he were still here by next year… _No. No, I am going to rescue Jenny!_

“But you’re one of us. You work at the paper. You’re…kinda clumsy, Hutch.”

“Yeah? So? I can still hit a ball and run bases. Surely things don’t have to be divided this much—you can be on the paper or you can be a jock. Can’t you do both?” He felt like he was practicing his debating skills—and not winning over his audience.

They stared at him dubiously. “Well, be that as it may,” said Maurice. “Starsky’s a jerk, and he deserves to be taught a lesson.”

“Freezing someone’s rear off is going to teach him a lesson? Really? Come on guys. Let’s put ‘em back. I’ll even do it. You don’t have to go.” He reached for the clothes.

“Man, you are one sick boy scout.” Julius shook his head. “I suppose you’ll tell him who took his clothes, if we don’t give ‘em back. You ‘jock-offs’ have to stick together. Here I thought you were one of us.”

“I—”

“Here.” He shoved the clothes into Hutch’s hands. “Knock yourself out—jock lover.”

He turned and ran back up the path towards the road. Maurice looked at Hutch, and shook his head, then followed more slowly.

_Great. Now why do I feel like the heel? They were the one playing the entirely un-practical joke…_

Sighing, he turned to trudge back up the path towards the water.

Chapter two

“Give ‘em back I said!” A flying, pink figure tackled Hutch. They flew back into the underbrush, Starsky on top. He yanked his clothes from Hutch’s arms, glared at him, and hurried away.

Hutch sat up, pine needles in his hair. “Easy, partner! I was doing just that!”

“Sh-sh-sure you were.” Behind a bush, Starsky hopped in place, trying to get into his jeans.

“Yeah, uh, me and some…some guys…well, I thought we should bring them back.”

“So these ‘guys’ wouldn’t h-h-happen to be Richard and Trace, would they?”

“Who?” said Hutch, puzzled.

“Ah, forget it. I forgot you’re the new guy. You know nothing and apparently you’re an idiot besides. Next time, for the record, invite your ‘friends’ to use their brains if they want to live!” he growled. It would have sounded more intimidating if his teeth hadn’t been chattering.

Hutch sat up and brushed his hair off. He realized he wasn’t afraid of Starsky.

“I am so going to…” Starsky’s voice drowned out as he fell into the leaves, and started swearing again.

Hutch hid a smile. “Uh…having a little trouble there, aren’t you?”

“Don’t you start!” he growled. “I’m never going to live this down…”

“Only if someone tells what happened,” said Hutch. 

“Ah, get out of here Boy Scout.”

_That’s the second time in half an hour I’ve been called ‘boy scout.’_

“For the record, I’m a sea scout.”

“Yeah? I’m so h-h-happy for ya! Now get outta here before I give you a wooden leg.”

Hutch couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Wooden leg. Yeah. That’s hilarious.” He caught sight of Starsky again, standing now, only hidden from the waist down by the bush. He was struggling to get a red t-shirt over his head. With his arms up, Hutch had a clear view of his muscular chest, his ribs, and the bruises that covered him.

“What the hell happened to you?” said Hutch, blinking.

“Shut up an’ mind your own business, Pirate Scout!”

“Pi—” Hutch laughed again at the unexpected quip. “You’re hilarious. Why aren’t you the class clown instead of the class bully?”

“Oh, I’m the bully alla the sudden! I’m not the one stealin’ people’s clothes!”

“Well, you were throwing rocks,” said Hutch reasonably. “And hogging the swimming area. Those kind of seem like bully traits to me.”

“Shut your pie hole,” mumbled Starsky, sounding a bit ashamed of himself. He mumbled, “Tellin’ people they’re bullies. Jumping in where you’re not wanted in a fight…”

“Oh, right. I was so unwanted. Those guys were going to pound you.”

“Shows what you know!”

Hutch snorted. “Right. You’re so tough you can take two at a time, all by yourself.”

“So happens maybe I am.”

Hutch laughed at the cocky, defensive, rather childish note in that voice. “You’re not fooling anyone, Starsk.”

“What did you say?” Suddenly, Starsky turned on him. One moment he was changing, pulling on his flannel shirt, still shivering, the next he had Hutch by the shoulders, shoved against a tree, glaring at him with fire in his dangerous eyes.

The humor wore off quickly.

“Back off, buddy,” said Hutch in his quietest, calmest voice. “Just because I’ll stick up for you doesn’t mean I won’t punch you if I have to.”

Starsky stared at him for several seconds, breathing hard. He was like a feral animal, really dangerous at the moment. “Ah, you’re full of it.” He released Hutch just as suddenly and whirled away. “…find my sneakers,” he muttered. “Better not have stolen them, too…” He ranged through the underbrush, head down, seeking.

Hutch found himself breathing again. Wow. This was one scary guy. He stood back from the tree—probably had bark marks on his back—and dusted off his shirt. Somehow a few minutes with this Starsky fellow left him feeling more off balance than he had all week—and that was saying something. But he also felt more alive. And he hadn’t thought of Jenny in almost a half hour.

_Jenny…_

His upper lip quivered as he remembered, and felt the stab to his heart again. _Why didn’t they just let me marry her instead of sending her there…and me here?_

“You’re sixteen,” his father had said. “You’re not wrecking your life and getting married because you got some girl pregnant. She’s going away to have the baby and you’re going to California with your aunt and uncle. Period!”

And somehow or other, here Hutch was, with his aunt and uncle, pining for Jenny, getting entangled with nothing-but-trouble guys named Starsky.

He slid down against the tree, drawing his knees towards his chest, and rested his face in his hands. He swallowed. _I am not going to cry…_

“Don’t tell me I hurt you.” Starsky’s voice, nearby and above him. And sounding kind of worried. “I didn’t actually hit you, you know.”

“Go away.” Hutch fumbled for his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. 

“I barely touched you!” He sounded incensed now, voice rising, defending himself.

“Everything’s not about you, you know.” Hutch blew his nose again. “Go home. I’m staying here.” _Leave me alone to pine for Jenny…_

Starsky snorted. “If I leave you alone here, you’ll never find your way out of the woods. It’s getting dark. Now come on, move!” He hauled Hutch upright by his shoulder, and gave him a shove towards the path. “Quick march! Left right left right!”

“Shut up.” Hutch stumbled down the path. His normal clumsiness was not helped any by the unfamiliar terrain and his blurry eyes. He tripped once, and caught himself on a tree, barking some skin from the heel of his palm. “Aw, crap.”

“What, now you can’t even walk right?”

“Shut up!” Suddenly seeing red, Hutch whirled on Starsky, shoved him in the shoulders and knocked him back, down into the pine needles. “You—just—SHUT UP!” For that moment, Starsky embodied everything he hated in the world—California, his father sending him out here, losing Jenny, and stupid high school politics.

“Hutch. Hey, Hutch!”

He found himself suddenly breathless and pinned, his wrists held down by Starsky’s hands and a knee on his chest. 

The dark-haired guy looked down at him with a worried expression. “You go nuts like this a lot?”

Hutch blinked up at him through his tears. Starsky’s face was smudged by dirt, but he didn’t look harmed—surprising for how hard Hutch had… attacked.

He reddened suddenly at the realization. “I’m—sorry,” he mumbled. 

Starsky let him up, removing his knee and giving Hutch a pat on the chest. “I’m not the enemy here—whoever he is.”

Hutch sat up, and pressed his hands into his eyes. “Aw, man, I’m sorry.”

“I can see that, sea scout. Now let’s get out of these woods. Come on!” He pulled Hutch to his feet, and yanked him after him, down the path. “Watch your step—it’s gettin’ dark!”

“I c-can see that,” said Hutch, swallowing, hard. He realized the hand that was yanking him down the path was still trembling—tremors of cold, running down Starsky’s arm. He’d gotten into his clothes still wet. He must be freezing. And it was getting chillier by the minute. “Starsky, you want my jacket?”

To his surprise, Starsky laughed. “Hey, I’m not your date. You don’t need to clothe me.” He released Hutch and bent under a low-hanging branch.

_My date. Oh, man…_

Hutch stopped and leaned against a tree, and stood staring into the gloom, watching his view cloud and fog—again—with tears.

After a few moments, Starsky’s voice and footsteps returned. “Man, Hutch. You’re as much of a basket case as I am!”

“That depends. Have you ever gotten your girlfriend pregnant and been sent out to California so you wouldn’t try to elope with her?”

“Eh, no, I can’t say I’ve ever done that. Come on, buddy. I really don’t want to be the one responsible for hiker-found-dead-in-the-woods-you.” He took his arm again and led him, like a little kid, down the path and towards the road.

“It didn’t seem this long on the way in.”

“That’s because it wasn’t dark and you weren’t freezing and stopping every two seconds to cry about your girlfriend!”

“Hey, you leave my—”

“You brought her up, not me! Just come on! I mean it. I’m freezin’ t’ death out here.”

Hutch paused. “You want my jacket?”

“No! Now move your clumsy feet, you oaf!”

“I’m the oaf?” said Hutch, trying to let himself get distracted by the conversation, pulled back from the well of grief he’d been falling into.

“Yeah, you’re the oaf. Tackled me to the ground and couldn’t even get one good hit in!”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Quit ‘pologizing! Somebody oughta teach you to fight.”

“Somebody ought to teach _you_ to stop.”

This time, he was only mildly surprised to hear Starsky laugh. “For a bookworm, you’ve got a mouth on you.”

“I’m not a bookworm. I’m not a jock. Why can’t I like sports _and_ my studies?”

“You like sports?” He heard the sharpening interest in Starsky’s voice. “Football?”

“No. Baseball.”

“Oh. You should try out for football. You’ve got an okay tackle on ya. I mean, for a blond.”

Hutch snorted. “Thanks—I think.”

Finally, they reached the road.

“Where you going? Town’s this way.” Hutch tugged on the hand that still held onto him.

“My car’s over here.” 

They reached a broken down jalopy, and Starsky pulled the driver’s door open and hopped in. “Well? Are you coming or do you want to walk home?”

Hutch got in.

Starsky cranked the heater up on the drive back. It hummed loudly—almost as loudly as his car rattled. It had taken several tries to start the engine of the ancient vehicle, and he bit his lip, concentrating hard on the driving. The beast seemed about the fall apart any second. Hutch had to watch where he put his foot so he wouldn’t tread on the surprisingly thin-looking patch of rust, with a few see-through spots of road flashing by beneath.

He looked around, smelled the rather decaying odor of the car, and glanced into the back seat, where he saw—

“Hey, you’re sleeping in here?”

“What the hell?” Starsky sounded shocked. His arms gave a jerk, and the car veered slightly.

“Hey—watch the road!” Hutch gripped his arm, hard. “This isn’t the way I want to die.”

“Oh yeah, wise guy? You’ve picked?” He sounded like he was a little unnerved, and trying to cover it. He kept his eyes on the road, though, now.

Hutch glanced back again at the sleeping bag and blanket, at the pillow—at the shirts and jeans spread over the back seat.

“So, uh, why are you sleeping in the back of a car?”

“How is that any of your damn business?” said Starsky, voice low and dangerous. Hutch had the feeling he’d already be pinned to a tree and staring down that snarl, if Starsky wasn’t driving.

“It’s not. Are you okay? Did something happen at your—”

A hand shot over and gripped his arm, hard, squeezing his bicep painfully tight.

_Ow._ Hutch bit his lip. “Okay, so you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Damn right.”

They drove in the silence (after a fashion—that car would never be truly silent). After a few minutes, Starsky spoke.

“You’re gonna have to tell me where you live, unless you want to drive around all night.”

“Um—yeah.” Hutch gave him his aunt and uncle’s address. Starsky drove up to the curb and stopped.

“Listen, Starsk.” Hutch sat in the dark in the car, making no move to get out. “If you want to come inside and eat—”

“Don’t need your damn charity.”

“My aunt is always saying I can bring a friend over.” Hutch continued as if he hadn’t spoken. 

“’Friend,’” grumped Starsky.

“You’d be doing me a favor, really. It wouldn’t be just my aunt and uncle, asking me yet again how school went.” He glanced at Starsky, a question in his eyes. Was all this chest-pounding just talk, or was he really going to refuse the invitation?

Starsky seemed to at least be considering it. He tapped his fingers on the wheel of his decrepit car. “Am kinda hungry,” he said at last. He glanced at Hutch. “Your aunt a good cook?”

“Oh, you know it.”

They got out of the car at the same time.

Chapter three

“Aunt Hazel?” Hutch peered around the door to the kitchen, cautiously.

“Kenny, dear, we were getting worried.” She put a pot of potatoes on the table, and glanced at him. “You need to go wash your face, dear.”

“Um—yeah. I brought a friend over. Is it okay?”

“Of course. Tell him to wash up, too. Unless—it’s a her?” She stopped, arrested by the thought, and worried-looking. Apparently she considered Hutch some kind of lothario.

“Um, no. It’s a him.”

He looked back onto the porch, where Starsky stood, rather nervously, his arms wrapped around himself, trying to get warm. Hutch jerked his head, and Starsky dived for the house.

“This is Starsky,” said Hutch, grabbing his new friend’s arm and hauling him quickly through the kitchen. “Starsky—this is my aunt, Hazel Hutchinson. We’ll be back in a minute, Aunt Hazel.”

Starsky raised a hand in greeting, and opened his mouth—only to be yanked on by.

Hutch’s aunt raised her hand as well, in perplexed greeting.

Hutch pulled the other boy into the bathroom. “Wash up. Use one of those towels. I’ll bring you something dry to wear. Get some of those leaves out of your hair.” He pointed, and made a grab at one. (Starsky swatted his hand away.) “Oh, and I really ought to know what your first name is.”

“Dave.”

“Okay, Davey—”

“ _Dave!_ ”

“—I’ll be right back.”

He pounded up the stairs and returned shortly with a couple of clean shirts. He pushed them inside and waved his hand around until they were snatched from him. “And hurry up,” he stage-whispered through the door. “I’ve got to get in there.”

“I’m hurryin’!” Starsky’s voice was muffled. There was a grunt, and then the sound of cloth tearing.

“You better not be ripping my shirt!”

“Which one?”

“Either!” He bit his lip, and shoved the door open. 

Starsky was just fastening the last button on the flannel shirt, over the other long-sleeved shirt. His shirts lay on a damp pile on the floor. There were no obvious rips anywhere visible.

“Did you need pants too?”

“Why, do you have my size?” Starsky stuck his tongue out.

“You idiot, you’ve button it up wrong.” He poked Starsky in the chest, pointing at the mismatched buttons.

“Ah—damn it.”

“Doesn’t matter. Get out there and redo it. It’s my turn in here now. Go on.” He shoved Starsky out, and shut the door.

“Oh boys! It’s time to eat!” called Aunt Hazel cheerfully.

_Dang it._ Hutch took a couple of swipes at his hair with the comb, and rubbed the smudge off his cheek. It would have to do.

He and Starsky clattered into the kitchen, ducking their heads guiltily, sliding into seats, and glancing at each other. Starsky looked really worried. Hutch gave him a quick nudge with his knee. _Don’t worry, it won’t be that bad._

It wasn’t.

Hutch’s aunt and uncle were friendly, pleased to meet Dave (“Kenny’s finally making friends!”), and went out of their way to be kind to him. At first, Starsky ate slowly, obviously trying to rein in his appetite, but at Mrs. Hutchinson’s encouragement, he gave it free reign. She kept filling up her plate.

“Honestly, you boys have the appetite of work horses! I don’t know where you put it,” she said, lading Hutch’s and Starsky’s plates cheerfully with more potatoes, meat, green beans, and gravy. Hutch held his hands up, surrendering after thirds, but Starsky kept eating steadily. At one point, Uncle Bill put down his fork and just stared. “Haven’t you eaten yet this week, boy?” he asked, in his abrupt way.

Starsky put down his fork, flushing. “I’m—just a little hungry from football practice,” he said, lamely.

Maybe Starsky’s appetite wasn’t really that funny. _He probably_ hasn’t _eaten in a week. At least not hot, fresh food._ He cast Starsky a rather pitying glance. 

“Ah—that’s fine. You eat up, boy. Growing and everything.” Uncle Bill harrumphed. 

He was a gruff, blunt man, but not unkind. When Hutch first arrived, he’d made a joking comment about not getting any local girls pregnant, please, and Hutch had flushed to the roots of his hair. His uncle had apologized and ruffled his hair, and walked past smoking his pipe. It took Hutch a little while to stop feeling embarrassed, but he was beginning to get used to his uncle’s ways, and realize he didn’t mean anything by them.

Starsky caught Hutch looking at him, and gave him a glare. Then he went back to eating, more slowly, obviously trying to rein himself in.

Eventually, the food was finished—pots scraped, pie dish clean, bread buttered and eaten. Starsky scraped his chair back reluctantly—the Hutchinson family, watching him, relaxed and followed suit. 

“Thank you for the meal, Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson. Can I help you clean up?”

“Oh, my, no,” said Mrs. Hutchinson, but her husband intervened. 

“I think that would be a good idea. You boys clean up the dishes. Let your aunt put her feet up, Kenny. Your parents aren’t expecting you back yet, are they?” He looked at Starsky.

“Uh—no. I live with my uncle,” said Starsky, looking embarrassed and a little shy. “He doesn’t care when I get back.”

_Aha_ , thought Hutch.

So he and Starsky ended up standing in the kitchen, in awkwardly tied aprons, holding and washing and drying dishes, trying to keep quiet and not drop anything, and fighting back clouds of soap. Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson sat in the living room, listening to the quiet beginnings of a musical revue show, with its canned applause.

“I ate too much, didn’t I?” said Starsky, leaning closer and whispering.

“You were fine,” said Hutch, just as quietly. “Hey—”

“What?” Dave looked down at the wash basin, trying to chase some of the soap away with his hands so he could see if there were any dishes left. “I think that’s it.” He coughed when soap bubbles hovered into the air, landing on his mouth, and wiped them off. “Yuck! These things taste terrible!”

“Soap—what do you expect? Hey.” He gripped Starsky’s arm with his damp, prunish fingers. “You want to stay overnight?”

Starsky glanced at him quickly. “I can’t. You didn’t ask ahead. They’ll say I gotta call my uncle, and I can’t call him. I haven’t been home in two weeks.”

_Two weeks?_ “Why not?” Hutch blinked. 

“That’s—never mind! I can’t, that’s all.”

“Well, look, just leave, and park around the alley in the back. I’ll open my window and you can climb in. It’s on the second story—there’s a big willow tree. It’s easy to climb. You can’t miss it.”

Starsky grimaced. “Don’t like heights.”

“Don’t be a baby. Do you want to sleep in a real bed or don’t you?”

Starsky looked at him. “You’ll let me have the bed?”

“Sure—unless you _want_ to sleep in the back of a smelly old car?”

“Hey—I heard that! Don’t talk that way about my baby!”

He snorted. “Your baby? That car is probably older than you are.”

“All the more reason to treat her with respect.”

They glared at each other. Starsky took a handful of soap bubbles and flicked them at Hutch. Hutch dodged, and they splattered on the kitchen floor. 

“You’re cleaning that up,” said Hutch, pointing. “Now are you staying, or aren’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Okay. Say goodnight to ‘em and move on out.” Hutch untied his apron.

“Do I need to wait till a certain time?”

“No, they don’t kiss me goodnight or anything. Besides, they go to bed right after this show. They’re real early risers.”

“Oh. Okay.” Starsky fumbled with his apron. “Shoot. The strings—”

“Here, turn around.” Hutch tried to loosen the apron strings that had somehow tightened into intolerable knots. 

“If you tell anyone I wore an apron…”

“Who would believe me? Look, they’re not coming loose. You’re gonna have to shimmy out of it.”

Hutch tried hard not to laugh; but Starsky made a funny spectacle, gyrating in place, trying to get the apron down around his hips so he could finally step out of it. Starsky glared at him. 

Hutch swallowed his grin the best he could, and pointed to the mess on the floor. With one last warning frown, Starsky knelt and wiped it up with the apron.

“Uh—g’night, Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson,” said Starsky standing in the living room awkwardly, with a wave. “I’m gonna—go, now.” He glanced at Starsky again, and Starsky almost thought he could read his mind. _I don’t like lying to your aunt and uncle._

“Come here, you.” Mrs. Hutchinson got up and hugged him. “Don’t be a stranger now.” She patted his back and released him. “I’m real glad you and Kenny are going to be friends.”

“Yeah… _Kenny_ seems like a great guy,” said Starsky, looking at her and avoiding Hutch’s irritated gaze.

Mr. Hutchinson rose as well, and shook his hand, gave him a clap on the shoulder. “Starsky. Good night to you. Our best to your uncle.”

Starsky ducked his head. “Thanks, Mr. Hutchinson.”

At last, Starsky was out the door, looking at Hutch uncertainly. There was a slight question in his eyes. _You still want to do it?_

Hutch nodded. He went straight up to his room, opened the window, and then got himself a pair of pajamas and took a quick shower. When he got out, Starsky was sitting cross-legged on his floor, looking uncertain, a little mournful. 

“I can’t take your bed,” he said.

“You certainly can’t if you don’t take a shower. Get in there. I’ll lend you some pajamas.”

He bent and gave Starsky a swat on his way past, reached into his drawer and rooted around until he found his second pair of pajamas, the ones he didn’t like. He tossed them to Starsky, who caught them and rose, sheepishly.

“I still don’t think this is a good—”

“It’s a great idea. Get in there.” He pointed to the bathroom. “You smell.”

Starsky wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out. But he went.

Hutch fluffed his pillow, unrolled his sleeping bag and spread it on the floor, got a second pillow from the closet and laid that on the floor, got an extra quilt off the top of his dresser, and put it on the end of the bed. He was getting another one, for his spot, when Starsky emerged, barefoot, toweling his flattened curls. He stood there looking uncertain. He was shorter and broader than Hutch, but the pajamas fit him fairly well.

Hutch stopped, holding the blanket. “Wait. Your clothes. They’re dirty—probably all of them, right?”

“Uh—yeah.”

“Okay—slip down and bring them inside. I can run a load tonight. The washer and dryer are in the basement. My aunt and uncle won’t notice if we keep it quiet.”

“I hafta go down the tree again?”

“Damn, you’re grateful.”

“Okay, okay, I’m goin’.”

Starsky moved to the window, and pushed it open.

Almost an hour later, the clothes were agitating in the basement, Starsky lay in bed, and Hutch in his sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling.

“Feel like a heel for takin’ your bed,” came Starsky’s quiet voice. “First you get into a fight to help me—”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“—then you bring me my clothes back, feed me, give me your bed, and do my laundry. Am I some kinda charity case to you?”

Hutch blinked. “Of course not.”

“Well, then why aren’t I sleeping on the floor and you’re up here?”

“Because you’re a guest and guests don’t sleep on the floor.”

“Even secret, uninvited guests?”

“Even secret, uninvited guests. Go to sleep, Davey.” He rolled over, and punched his uncomfortable pillow.

Starsky made a growling sound. “Not ‘Davey.’”

“Are you going to tell me why you haven’t been home in two weeks?”

Starsky hesitated. “Okay.” His voice was very quiet; it made him sound younger. “My uncle kicked me out.”

“Why?” said Hutch. His back crawled a little, as he tried to think what a sixteen-year-old could have done that was bad enough to get kicked out on the street. Even Hutch had only been sent away to relatives—and he’d gotten a girl pregnant.

“Sheesh, nothing like that!” said Starsky. “I guess I’m gonna have to tell you.” He hesitated.

“Well. Go on.”

“Um…he…hits me sometimes…okay, since…since I moved out here. My dad died—an’ my mom…well, I got to be too much for her to handle.” Hutch heard him swallow in the dark. “So she sent me out here so a man could whip me into shape. His method was lots of beatin’s and a few punches.” 

He swallowed, again; this time, Hutch swallowed as well.

“It got worse when his wife died,” said Starsky. 

Silence, for a long time. 

“That was hard. Anyway, I got bigger, and now I’m big enough to hit back.” A pause. “I hit him one time—one time, after all the times he’s hit me!—and he kicks me out of the house.”

“Why didn’t you call your mom?” said Hutch.

“Yeah, right. She’d send me back, that’s all—and there’s no going back with my uncle and me. Besides, if she didn’t, then I’d have to leave the football team, and there’s no way they’d let me on a team in New York, not partway through the season. ‘Sides. It…really isn’t better back there. There’s…lots of gangs and stuff. It’s harder to be good.”

“You’ve been being good?”

Starsky snorted, quietly. “Yeah, actually, I have. Real good.” He rolled over, and rearranged his pillow. “’Night, Hutch.”

“Goodnight, Starsky.”

He closed his eyes, but all he could see was Jenny, Jenny taken from him, his own, dear Jenny. And how could she be pregnant? They’d only slept together one time, and everyone had said it couldn’t happen the first time…

After a few minutes, he got up and padded down to the basement to check on the clothes. He sat on a stool, glumly watching the washer until it finished. Then he put the clothes over to the dryer, and headed slowly back upstairs to try to grab a few hours of untormented sleep.

#

He woke up crying, with someone shaking his shoulder.

“Hey. Wake up, Hutch.” Starsky looked down at him worriedly. “I don’t think Jenny can hear you, but the rest of the house might.”

“Jenny,” said Hutch, one last time, and swallowed and wiped at his eyes and sat up. 

Starsky stood back, regarding him worriedly. “You all right?”

Hutch nodded. He wasn’t, but what was the point in saying so? He was no worse than he’d been last night, or the day before, or the day before that…

“Well, listen, I gotta get outta here, buddy.” Starsky ranged the room, looking nervous and on edge and high-strung. “If they find me in here it won’t be pretty. I sure won’t get invited back for supper and that food was GOOD. So will ya get my clothes, and I’ll be off?” He raised his eyebrows and looked at Hutch.

“Okay.” Hutch dragged himself out, down the steps, and—

“Hello, Kenny. You didn’t have to do the wash last night. I could’ve done it while you were in school.” She was folding Starsky’s clothes, at the kitchen table! “I didn’t remember you had this shirt…” She folded a denim shirt lovingly.

“Uh—I don’t w-w-wear it that often,” stuttered Hutch. “Uh—you know—I’m old enough to fold my own clothes. Let me take care of them. I’ll—just—do it upstairs.” He managed to get the basket with the rest of Starsky’s things, and the few shirts she’d folded on top, and headed back upstairs.

“Davey. Trouble. My aunt folded some of them. Thought they were mine. That was close.”

Starsky cast him a worried look. “Oh, man, I’ve got to get out of here!”

“Well, put some clothes on!” Hutch flung a pair of jeans at him and started clumsily, hurriedly folding the rest of the clothes. 

A few minutes later, Starsky yanked his second shoe on, grabbed the pile of creatively folded clothes, and headed for the window. “Thanks for everything, Hutch, but I’ve gotta run.” His curly head disappeared down the tree moments later. 

Hutch watched it go. The curls were bouncier this morning, he noticed. Starsky must’ve really needed a good washing.

He felt glum and heart-heavy again, almost right away, now that the distraction of his houseguest was gone. He wandered down the kitchen and started making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. 

“Um, is it all right if I make extra? For Dave? He gets awful hungry. I don’t think his uncle’s much of a cook.”

It was amazing the lies he could tell, and not blush. Then again, Dave was hungry—and his uncle was probably no chef.

“Sure, that’s fine, Kenny.” His aunt laid a hand on his back. “But I’ve already made your lunch—it’s by your seat. You can just put that on top, if you want.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you,” he mumbled.

“I put a few extra cookies in, and an extra meatloaf sandwich.” She gave him a wink. “I know how you boys are.”

“Yeah…we…kinda are,” said Hutch, not sure what he was agreeing with, but thinking it had to do with eating. And it was pretty hard to disagree with the statement that teenage boys ate a lot. He’d have hated to draw that position for a debate.

Chapter four

One of the large football players who’d been in a fight yesterday bumped into Hutch’s shoulder in the hall, hard. His books took a spill, and the guy didn’t back off to let him pick them up.

“Oops,” said the big guy. “Looks like you dropped your books, bookworm.”

“Oops,” echoed the large guy behind him—the other guy from the fight, Hutch realized. The hairs on the back of his neck started to stand up. _Uh oh._ It looked like he was going to be the one outnumbered two to one this time.

Suddenly, Starsky was there. He shoved the second guy back, and muscled into the territory of the first, standing tall, arrogant-looking and intimidating. 

“Leave the new guy alone. He’s obviously too new to know it wasn’t an unfair fight—it takes two of you bozos to handle one of me.” He gave the big guy a hard slap on the rear, and sauntered away.

Sure enough, that diverted attention from Hutch. They started down the hall after him.

“Ah-ah. Remember what that coach said, boys,” said Starsky. “Might just hafta get kicked off the team if you get in any fights.”

Hutch didn’t see Starsky again until lunch—and then Starsky ignored him. Hutch looked at him firmly, willing him to come over and collect his half of the packed lunch, but Starsky just stared right through him from halfway across the room and sat slouched at his table, with nothing in front of him.

After a few minutes, he made his way outside, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and tapping one out. He looked fierce and sharp this morning, his hair curly but combed, his clothes clean, his walk as confident as a tiger’s. Hutch saw several of the girls watching him go past. Maybe he wasn’t as low on the high school totem pole as Julius and Maurice had thought.

Speaking of whom, they were pointedly ignoring Hutch this morning. And poor Claudia. She kept her head down at their table, eating steadily and quietly, as if she was frightened to look up. _They better not have told her they told me about her having a crush on me…if she even does…_

He got up and headed out after Starsky.

“What took you so long?” said Starsky, leaning against the brick wall out back. He pressed the close-smoked butt of his cigarette out against the brick, and looked at Hutch, hungry-eyed. “What’d you bring me?” He accepted the bag Hutch tossed and ripped it open ravenously.

“Why didn’t you come over?”

“What, are you kidding? And ruin your reputation?” He tore into the meatloaf sandwich and rolled his eyes. “Oh, man, your aunt can cook!”

“Don’t make me eat alone.” 

“Then eat out here with me. You want a cigarette?” He held the packet up.

Hutch shook his head. He pulled himself up to sit on top of the brick wall, and looked down at Starsky, who was eating like a starved animal, leaning protectively over his food as if someone might take it away. 

“Man, you hardly ate anything! Do you want some of this for later?” Starsky looked up, with ketchup smeared on his face. 

Hutch shook his head. “Not hungry.”

Starsky gave him a look that was a bit more knowing than he liked—and a bit more pitying. “Jenny, huh?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He slid off the wall and walked away. 

He was walking home, past football practice, eyes down, glumly scuffing the dirt with his tennis shoes, when a football landed near him. He jumped.

“I’ll get it!” yelled Starsky. He came jogging up, trying to catch Hutch’s eye. “You okay?” he said, quietly.

“No. Never.”

“You’ll get over it.” He scooped up the ball. “I know ya don’t want to hear that now, but it’s true.”

“She’s pregnant, Dave. She’s having my baby and they won’t even let me see—”

“Starsky! Hurry up with that ball!” shouted the coach.

“Are you coming over tonight?” said Hutch, quickly.

“Can I?” He started back, glancing at Hutch, who nodded quickly. 

“I’ll leave the window open.”

When Starsky crawled in the window later, he carried the carefully rolled up bag from lunch, with some food still in it.

“Wow. That must’ve taken some willpower.” Hutch pointed.

“Huh? Well, I didn’t want to go hungry later. If you changed you mind…?” He held it out, awkward but earnest.

_Man, he looks just like a little kid with that expression._ “No, Dave, honest, I couldn’t eat another bite. We had a big supper.”

“Oh really? What’d you have?” Starsky leaned forward with interest, and opened the bag.

Starsky wouldn’t take no for an answer that night; he slept on the floor, hugging the pillow, the top of the sleeping bag kicked off him. It wasn’t that cold tonight.

Hutch held back for as long as he could. When he thought Starsky was surely asleep, he gave in, and wept. He wept for Jenny, and for himself, and for the baby—who would it look like? And would he ever see it, even once? 

_I’ll bet they don’t even tell me if it’s a boy or a girl…_

“Hutch,” said Starsky quietly. “Please don’t cry.” The sleeping bag rustled. The bed creaked as he sat down on its edge. He laid a hand on Hutch’s shoulder, and jostled him. “Please. It’s not that bad.”

Hutch just cried harder. He couldn’t stop. The sobs hurt—dry, terrible sounds he was making—but he couldn’t, couldn’t stop. And part of him never wanted to. “Go away.” He waved at Starsky—at least he didn’t have to watch, even if he didn’t have the decency to sleep through it.

“No.” Starsky sat on the edge of his bed, and stroked a hand back over Hutch’s head, over and over, until his sobbing slowed and eventually stopped. 

Hutch lay completely drained, feeling void of humanity, feeling like he had nothing left inside.

Starsky kept petting his hair. “You okay now, Hutch?”

“No. I’m never gonna be okay again.” He rolled over, and pulled the pillow over his head, biting his lip.

Starsky sat still for a moment. “You will.” The bed creaked as he rose. He patted Hutch’s back. His feet scuffed back to the bedroll. “You will, Hutch. Just wait. Wake me up if you need to talk.”

Hutch didn’t, and he did eventually sleep. But it took some time, and he felt like crap in the morning. 

He didn’t want to look at Starsky by the light of day. Starsky’s face was quietly concerned, questioning and hesitant. He touched Hutch’s side when he walked past him, and Hutch kept his head down.

“Sorry,” said Hutch.

“Don’t be sorry. Be better.”

“That’s the one thing I can’t do.”

Starsky reached out and socked him lightly on the arm, and then, instead of withdrawing his hand, left it on Hutch’s arm and squeezed. “You will be. You will.”

Hutch waited until he let go, and then hurried into the bathroom. He smiled a bit in the mirror as he combed his hair. He’d been sure Starsky would look at him with disgust this morning. It was a relief to feel only compassion, instead.

“Listen,” said Hutch, “pick me up out front, and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“Okay.” Starsky ducked out the window with a flash of denim and sneakers. “Make it somethin’ I can eat while driving.”

Hutch studiously buttered a piece of toast, and put jelly on another, then put them together, cut them in half, and folded the sandwich into a napkin. He slid it into his jacket pocket when no one was watching him.

“Um, Starsky’s picking me up. Can he, uh, come over for supper again?” He looked up, taking another bite of his own toast.

“Of course. That would be nice—and thank you for the warning. I believe I’ll make extra meat loaf, so there’s enough for you boys.”

“He sure can put it away.” Uncle Bill shook his head. “Pass the butter.”

Hutch passed it. “Uh, can he—can he stay over tonight?”

They looked at him. “Well! You are making fast friends, Kenny. One week and you’re already having people stay over. Of course. I’ll make up the guest room.”

“Th-thank you,” said Hutch. “Uh, he can sleep on the floor, on my sleeping bag—or I can—if it’s any trouble.”

“Kenny! Guests don’t sleep on the floor. I’ll just change the sheets in the guest room. It’s not hard.”

“O-okay. Thank you. Let me know if you need extra help, if he’s extra work—”

“Kenny, it’s no trouble. I’m just glad you’re settling in.” She gave him a fond look. 

Great. Now Hutch had something else to feel guilty about. He wasn’t settling in—not really. He was just worried about Starsky.

A horn honked outside. “That’ll be Dave. Gotta go.” Hutch lunged from his chair. His shoe caught on the table leg, and he went down. “Ow.” He stood up, grimacing and rubbing his shin. “Sorry. Did I spill anything?”

“Kenny, you’re rushing too much. Sit down a minute. I’ll invite Dave in for a bite to eat.”

“Wait, let me get some more food first!” said Uncle Bill, moving quickly to grab some more scrambled eggs and toast.

Aunt Hazel went out to get Starsky. He appeared moments later, looking a little hangdog, and hungry and hopeful, too. He sat eating toast and eggs slowly, nodding or shaking his head to questions. Aunt Hazel seemed to be amused and pleased by his appetite (which Starsky was obviously trying to rein in), and Uncle Bill was joshing about it. But in the end, the boys held firm; they didn’t let her make more food (“just a couple more eggs”), and left in Starsky’s car.

Hutch fingered the toast in his pocket. Starsky wouldn’t want it now, and it would be cold and probably nasty and soggy by lunchtime. Maybe he could feed it to some birds or squirrels near school…

“So what’d you bring me?”

“Huh?” Hutch looked up.

“You heard me. You said you’d bring me something. What?”

“But you just ate breakfast—”

“And I’m still starving. Come on!”

“Um, just toast.” Hutch withdrew it carefully and unwrapped it. “See?”

Starsky glanced over. “I kinda need both hands for driving. Just hold it out this way and I’ll take a bite.”

“You sure you wouldn’t rather I drove?”

Starsky growled at the suggestion. So Hutch held the toast sandwich up carefully and Starsky bit off a huge chunk. 

“Watch it. I want to keep these fingers.”

“Then don’t get them in the way,” said Starsky indistinctly. 

Hutch fed him the rest of the toast, popping the last bite into his mouth carefully for him. When he stopped the car, Starsky brushed the crumbs off himself and said, “Thanks.”

“Why are you stopping here?” said Hutch. “We’re not there yet.”

“Yeah. You get out here an’ walk in.”

Hutch cast him a look. “Don’t want to be seen with me?”

“Kinda the other way around. And I think I should stop stayin’ over, too,” said Starsky, looking ahead, and not at Hutch. He tapped his palms on the wheel.

For a minute, Ken felt like his heart stopped; like someone had punched him at just the right spot and his heart had stopped. He thought, _Oh_. He swallowed, and got his face under control. 

“Yeah.” He turned to look at Starsky. “Sure. If you want to.” 

“Y’see, it’s just—”

“No. Sure. That’s fine.”

He got out of the car and slammed the door, started towards school.

“Hutch,” called Starsky. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah.” Hutch walked towards school, keeping his head up, holding his book bag. Starsky let him go.

He didn’t see Starsky that day at school. Not in the cafeteria, not at class. He didn’t walk past the ball field to see if he showed up for practice. Maybe he was here. Maybe he was just keeping his head down.

“Starsky’s not coming. His uncle…he couldn’t get away,” said Hutch when he sat down for supper that evening with his relatives.

“Aw, what a shame! Do you have his uncle’s number? I’d like to call him. Perhaps we can set up some time that will work better for his uncle. Dave seems like such a nice young man.”

“I don’t have his uncle’s number,” said Hutch. He bent his head over his mashed potatoes.

There was a knock at the door.

Mrs. Hutchinson went to open it. “Dave!” 

Hutch looked up suddenly, and, past her, glimpsed Starsky, standing on the doorstep, looking uncomfortable—and filthy. Maybe he had gone to practice after all.

“Come in. Did your uncle change his mind?”

Starsky’s gaze flew past her, to Hutch, and locked with his for a second. He looked down. “Uh, yeah… my uncle said I could come after all.”

He slid into the seat beside Hutch, head down slightly. He was filthy. And he smelled.

“You need to wash your hands, Dave,” said Mrs. Hutchinson. She looked a little worried to see him so filthy.

“Oh—yeah.” He got up and hurried towards the restroom.

“Would you excuse me a moment?” said Hutch. He put down his napkin and scraped his chair back.

Dave was splashing his face with cold water when Hutch arrived.

“Don’t you ever shower?” He slapped a clean shirt into Starsky’s hand. “Clean up. You can at least be fit to sit down if you’re going to eat with us.” He turned and started to leave.

“Wait. Hutch. I didn’t mean that like it sounded, earlier. I wanted to come by and explain. So, uh, I came by.”

“Yeah. Well, maybe you could do that later. Or whatever. But clean up now. You smell.”

He went back to the table. Soon, Starsky returned and slid into his seat, wearing Hutch’s clean shirt, smelling less strongly of sweat. His face and hands looked scrubbed, slightly damp.

He was subdued and quiet during the meal, and barely ate anything.

Hutch ate his supper grimly, keeping his conversation brief, his answers short and to the point, passing things before people could ask for them.

“If you’ll excuse me.” He stood up. “I have some homework I want to look at. I’ll come back and clean up the dishes when you’re all done.” He smiled, a little stiffly.

His aunt and uncle by now had realized something was wrong; they let him go.

Hutch went up to his room, got out his math book, opened his tablet, and sat down to work.

Footsteps on the stairs; his mouth tightened and he bowed his head a little more closely to his work, as if he were concentrating very hard. 

“Hutch?” The footsteps stopped at his door, and the door creaked open. “C’n I come in?”

“Do what you want.” Hutch shrugged. Man, did he really sound that snippy? He sat down his pencil with a sigh. “Look, uh, you don’t have to explain anything. You’ve…you’re not comfortable here. I get it.” _I’m too much of a baby, apparently. I cried in front of you, and you couldn’t handle it. Thanks a lot, buddy._

Starsky sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. He bounced slightly, pushing up and down with his sneakers. “I’m sorry I said it that way. Left you thinkin’ it was about you, not me.” He looked at Hutch, humble, apologetic, young-looking somehow, and honest. He propped his elbows on his legs, leaning forward.

“It’s not easy for me, Hutch. I don’t trust people. And you’re just gonna…” He swallowed, and then sat up and threw his arms up with a loud sigh. “You’re gonna leave, or get disgusted with me and start hatin’ me, or…or… I can’t count on people, you know? I don’t want to start counting on you. Besides—you’ll get in trouble. They’re bound to find out I’m crashing here, and you’ll be in huge trouble, and it’ll be my fault, I’m just wrecking things again. You seem like a nice guy, Ken, and I don’t want to do that to you.”

“Starsky, if you think there’s worse trouble than I’m already in—”

“You gave me food, clothes, a place to sleep, somebody to talk to…but it’s gotta end, before it ends bad. You can understand that, can’t you? I don’t make friends. Can’t keep ‘em. So…it’s been nice. I like ya a lot. Can we shake on it? Can you not be mad at me about this?”

Hutch looked at him, and slowly shook his head. “No, buddy. Either you’re my friend or you’re not, but it’s not something we end on a handshake. You’re in or you’re out. There’s no middle ground.”

Starsky sighed, and scrubbed his hands back through his curly hair. “You’re not makin’ this easy. I don’t wanna be your charity case.”

“You’re not.”

“And—and I don’t know if I wanna be your friend, either! You’re…makin’ me go soft. I gotta be tough. I gotta be strong.” He took a fist, and thumped it against his chest. “You hear that? That’s a tough guy, with nothin’ breakable inside. When you trust people, you can get hurt.”

“I guess you can.” Hutch shrugged.

Starsky stared at him, annoyed, maybe even incensed. “So it’s just…that’s it, Starsky? ‘Take a risk or get lost, and I’m going to stay mad at you?’”

“Maybe.” Hutch shrugged, not giving him an inch. He looked back down at his math book. 

He’d been more hurt than mad, but he wasn’t about to tell Starsky that. He seemed to mind the thought of Hutch being angry; he might not care if he just thought his feelings were hurt. (“You’ll get over it, Hutch.” The phrase reverberated through Hutch’s head.)

Starsky jumped to his feet with a frustrated sigh. “Well, that’s too bad!” His accent thickened. “’Cuz it’s not happening again! First my dad died, and my gang mates, couldn’t count on them, and then my uncle turned out to be like he is…and…and…I just don’t have any guys in my life I can count on—not my coach, not my teammates, and sure as hell not my uncle!” 

He sat down again, and sighed, scraping his hands back over his face, hiding it in them. “I can’t be your pet, somethin’ you adopt an’ take care of until your life gets back on track, an’ then you drop me. I can’t do that, Hutch.” He looked up, suddenly, from his palms, and his eyes were suspiciously wet-looking.

“You’re not my pet.” Hutch found his voice, but his throat was very dry. “I don’t see you that way.”

He didn’t know exactly how he did see Starsky—someone he wanted for a friend, someone he cared about and wanted to take care of—but definitely not a pet. He respected Starsky, didn’t look down on him. But the seriousness of this conversation was scaring him a little. He’d never have guessed Starsky had all this deep stuff going on inside.

Starsky stared at him, hard. “If we’re friends, it’s gotta be for keeps.”

Hutch took a deep, slow breath. Was this guy offering what Hutch thought, the kind of deep, unconditional friendship he’d always wanted?

“Okay, for keeps,” said Hutch, slowly. “You too. You have to stick by me. You can’t…decide you don’t like me anymore, or change your mind. We’re on the same team and that’s it.” 

He paused, and looked at Starsky measuringly. Starsky looked back. 

Hutch continued. “If we’re on the same side, then it’s for keeps. Team Starsky and Hutch. Me and thee. It’s not something to go back on—ever.” He stared at Starsky, hard. His eyes were feeling wet now, too. “Is that what you want?”

Starsky nodded quickly. His mouth was trembling. “I want that.” And his eyes said, _I’ve wanted that for a long time, so long._

Hutch stared at him, hard. “If we do this…”

Starsky swallowed, and nodded. “…there’s no goin’ back.”

Chapter 5

“Right.” Hutch nodded. “You and me, forever. But…”

“…it’s…unnerving,” finished Starsky. You’re gonna have my insides. An’ if you change your mind, Hutch, an’ squish ‘em…or maybe you’re just jokin’, and this is all some hilarious practical joke to you…I don’t think I can handle that, Hutch. I’m not tryin’ to threaten you, an’ I’m not tryin’ to scare you, but…there’s not a lot left inside me. I’m just barely hangin’ on. If we do this thing, and you betray me, I think I’ll lose it.” He looked at Hutch, honestly, searchingly, his face blank but somehow not devoid of emotional pain.

He kept looking at Hutch. A little shiver ran down Hutch’s spine, as he realized what Starsky—this dangerous, quixotic guy—would be like, if he lost it. If he truly lost his restraints, his desire to ‘be good.’

Starsky swallowed. “So if you wanna back out now, if you don’t think you can take it, all right. But you gotta say now.”

Hutch swallowed. “No. I’m in.” He held out his hand, impulsively, heart pounding hard. 

_My parents used to say I wasn’t responsible enough to adopt a dog. Now I’ve adopted a best friend for life._

Dave grabbed his hand and shook it—then impulsively pulled him into a hug, gripping him hard, and holding on tight. “Good. ‘Cuz I am completely in.”

Hutch laughed, and felt the tears coming to his eyes—why? Why now? And he didn’t care; he hugged back, hard. “Me too, Davey.”

Starsky drew back, and grinned at him, his posture loose now, slack, more fully at ease. He didn’t even look ashamed by the fact that he had tears in his eyes. He just wiped them away, unembarrassed. “You can call me that now, if you want.”

“I love you,” said Hutch suddenly, looking right at Starsky, testing this thing right off—the ledges they could stand on, and be safe.

Starsky grinned, looked both embarrassed and pleased. He reached out and socked Hutch lightly on his arm. “Love you too.”

#

That night, they lay in bed together, comfortably close but not touching.

They’d finished the dishes together, and Starsky had gone to bed in the guest room, but that had lasted all of one hour. Starsky had crept over after the aunt and uncle were in bed, and whispered, “You asleep?”

“No,” said Hutch. He was all wound up and kept thinking, _Did we really have that conversation?_

Starsky sat on the edge of the bed and they talked for awhile, then Ken pulled back the covers, and invited him in.

Starsky hesitated. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“No. Why would I mind? Get in here. It’s cold.”

Starsky hopped in. 

It was a tight squeeze, two lanky teenage boys in a single bed, but neither suggested any different arrangement. Hutch thought their pact was too new, too precious to not cement by some lowering of barriers. He didn’t mind being the first to suggest it. Sleeping in the same bed was one way to do that—trust each other, and be close, and show that they both took this seriously. Plus, they needed to talk.

Starsky now lay with his hands under his head, his elbow pointed skyward so it wouldn’t be in Hutch’s face. 

“You feel like this is gonna change everything? Havin’ somebody on your team, all the time?”

“I hope so,” said Ken. “I could use that kind of change.” He rolled over impulsive, and slid his arms around Dave.

Dave stiffened momentarily—and then sat up and returned the hug. “Me too, Kenny.”

#

In their classes, they traded seats so they could sit next to each other. They sat at the same table at lunch, ignoring the stares. 

The next few days flew by. Hutch threw himself into his newspaper work and homework. Starsky practiced hard at football. He only showered at Hutch’s home, though. (“I can’t shower at school, in front of a bunch of other guys who are supposed to respect me. I’m always covered in bruises—used to be from my uncle hitting me, but lately it’s from all the fights I’ve been gettin’ into. Maybe when they heal…”)

One night they discussed telling.

“Do you think we should tell your aunt and uncle?”

“What, about us?”

“No. That’s secret, sea scout. You know that.”

“Then what? That you wanna stay here?”

“Yeah.”

Hutch digested it. “Maybe. But if they say no…?”

“At least we won’t be lyin’ to ‘em. I can stand sleepin’ in a car, if I still have you.” He could say that now; they could say anything now.

Hutch lay a hand on his stomach, patted him clumsily; Starsky felt thin under his hand. “Gotta fatten you up. You’re skinny.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, Mr. Scrawny Butt.” Starsky took a swipe at Hutch’s hair, then paused and rubbed some between his fingers. “Man, you’ve got soft hair. You’d have girl hair, if it was a little longer.”

“Oh, I’ve got girl hair, Curly? Call you Little Orphan Annie if your hair was orange.”

“Red.”

“Orange.”

Their hands fell back to their sides. Starsky scrunched carefully sideways to face Hutch. “So, are we gonna tell your aunt and uncle or what?”

“And risk them sending you back to your uncle? No way.”

“No, they can’t send me back. I won’t let ‘em—and he won’t either. Besides, they don’t seem like that kind of people, Hutch. Do they to you?”

“Well, no. But they might—” He paused. “Well, I don’t know. I don’t want to lose you. I guess I’d like to tell them too, but…I’m worried. I don’t want you sleeping in some car.”

“Some car?! I’ll have you know…”

“Yeah, yeah, your baby—I get it. Man. You’re nuts if you think that’s a great car. And it has no insulation—I saw the holes in the floor. What happens when it gets really cold?”

“More blankets,” said Dave stubbornly. “Actually…I was thinking. There’s a little hotel I could maybe stay at. I could afford it if I could work some more hours at the grocery store—if they said no to me staying here.”

“You work?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No. Maybe I could work, too, and we could both afford it.”

“Aw, Hutch, I can’t ask ya to take a job for me!”

“No, right—right. I forgot. We didn’t pledge each other our lives or anything.”

Starsky reached over and swatted him on the gut. “Anyway, I could offer to pay your uncle and aunt some room an’ board, first. I mean, I do earn a little money—I work about twelve hours a week. It’s not much, but I can’t work much or I wouldn’t have time for school an’ football.”

“How’s your schooling going, anyway? Are you keeping up with homework?”

Starsky snorted. “Hutch. You know me—I’m barely keeping up with anything right now. But I’ll do better. I will.”

“Okay. Maybe I can help you.”

“You’re helpin’ me already.” He smiled at Hutch.

Hutch applied to the grocery store, too, but the manager said he didn’t need another broom pusher right now. He went to the neighbors; see if anyone needed any yard work done. He got one offer for a weekly mowing job.

Starsky saw his guitar in the cupboard one day, locked away as if it had been bad. “Hutch! You play?” He grinned at him, raising his eyebrows. “Play somethin’ for me.”

Hutch shook his head. “Not anymore. I don’t play anymore. Put it away, Starsk.”

“You ought to. I’ll bet you’re good.”

#

Dave sat next to him on his bed. Hutch cross-legged, was reading Geography homework. Dave’s own book was in his lap, but he didn’t seem to be reading. Hutch was sure of it when Dave started poking at Hutch’s hand and flexing the long fingers. 

“Your hands and feet are about two sizes too large—like a big, clumsy puppy. Probably gonna grow into a Saint Bernard, Hutch.”

Hutch showed his teeth. “Watch it, pal. Sometimes puppies bite.”

Starsky laughed at him. “Not this one.” 

They drove home slowly one day—the long way. Starsky slowed down past a dilapidated house with an overgrown yard. “Looks like my uncle hasn’t started mowing his own grass yet.” He sped up, tires squealing around the street, towards home. 

On cold nights, Starsky climbed into the window after dark shivering. Ken rubbed his arms to warm him, and then hurried him into the bathroom for a hot shower. Damp, and finally warm, wrapped in pajamas and sometimes a bathrobe as well, Davey sat next to him in bed, or propped up on one elbow, eating whatever Ken had managed to find for him. He ate like a starving man, stopping only once he ran out of food, or began to yawn so much he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

Starsky was still touchy sometimes; once he startled, and whirled around with an angry look on his face when Hutch touched him and he didn’t see him coming. 

Hutch raised his hands, and stepped back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Don’t ‘pologize,” said Starsky. He reached out and touched Ken’s stomach, very lightly, just two fingers. “I’m a little bit funny about people yet, Kenny. Give me time.”

One day Hutch convinced him to pull up his shirt, and show his bruises. There were a sobering number of them, most of them healing, turning yellow, but some ugly and purple and fresh.

“I play rough football. An’ I get in lots of fights. It never seemed to matter before, because my uncle would hit me plenty, anyway. But I’m doing better, Hutch—honest.” 

He was, too. There hadn’t been any incidents at school for days. He’d showed up for every class, even taking notes in his sloppy, backwards-lettered left-handed scrawl. 

“You’ve got some of the most…creative spelling I’ve ever seen,” said Hutch once, turning his notes to look at them once when they were studying after school, in the library. “Did you really just spell ‘the’ as ‘t-e-h?’”

“Don’t make fun.” Starsky turned his notes back. “That’s how it looks to me.”

Hutch poked his shoulder. “I’ll poke _you_. I won’t poke fun. Why don’t you just use a shorthand symbol for ‘the,’ instead of writing it out each time?”

Starsky nodded, looking down at his paper—and then pushed it over to Hutch. “Show me?”

On Saturdays, Hutch got up early to mow the neighbors’ yard. Sometimes he saw the husband, Mr. Blaine, leaving early, buckling on his holster for work. 

“Hey—that guy’s a cop,” said Starsky, the first time he was there to see it. He nudged Hutch, and kept his voice low, watching warily, as if Blaine had suddenly become someone to fear.

“Yeah. So?” Hutch paused, and wiped his brow. He’d been raking leaves, with Starsky’s nominal help. “You’re not a little kid. You don’t have to be scared of cops.” _Not that you should be then, either._

“Yeah, I guess…but when I was in the gang…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head resolutely. “I’m a law-‘biding citizen now, right Hutch? Except for the whole…homeless thing.”

Hutch gave him a shove on the shoulder. “You’re never gonna be homeless, and don’t you forget that. I’m your home, and that’s not changing.”

Starsky smiled at him, briefly, shyly. “Yeah. I guess. You’re my home.”

He saw Blaine stop at his car, and turn, and look at them. They both bent quickly and began raking furiously, piling the leaves into the middle of the yard. They exchanged worried looks. _Did he hear us from that far away?_

As soon as the leaves were raked, Starsky had to jump in the middle of them, and flail and roll around—and of course Hutch, irritated at the mess, had to jump in as well and wrestle him over that decision. At last, they lay panting, staring up at the sky.

“Aw, Hutch,” said Starsky, his voice full of emotion. Hutch turned to look at him, wide eyed and blinking, concerned.

Starsky poked him in the arm and then pointed to the sky, and a fluffy cloud. “It’s Mickey Mouse.”

Hutch burst out laughing and gave him a shove. 

“What! It is!”

They wrestled around some more, and Starsky pushed leaves into Hutch’s hair, and then of course Hutch had to reciprocate. Starsky was stronger than him, and when they wrestled, he could feel it unless Starsky held back. But most of the time, the muscular, curly Starsky kept himself in check. 

He seemed to be practicing how to be as gentle as he needed to be. He held the door for girls at school now, instead of just brushing angrily past. He smiled at people sometimes. And at night, when they were alone, he held Hutch so tenderly when he had to break down and cry in the dark about Jenny.

Hutch was thinking of her less often now—the busy days and the companionship of Starsky helped—but she and the unknown baby were still always there, in the background, like sand in a clam, irritating, causing him to hurt without being able to do anything to stop it.

“Invite your friend over tonight,” Aunt Hazel said almost every day. 

Starsky ate with them, and tried to curb his appetite. Although it had been several weeks of fairly regular eating now, and showering, and warmth, and Hutch’s affection, he still seemed not quite used to them, and it was an effort for him every time (he confided to Hutch once), to not bolt his food, but to eat slowly and wait for more.

Every day he came over to eat, he and Hutch did the dishes afterwards. On other days, Hutch helped his aunt and she talked to him about his day. Or rather, he usually ended up talking about what he and Starsky had done, or were planning to do tomorrow or on the weekend.

One day he was washing and Starsky was drying. A dish slipped from Dave’s hands, crashed to the floor and shattered. He jumped a little, his eyes growing huge. 

_Good work, Starsky._

“What’s the problem?” Mr. Hutchinson stepped out into the kitchen.

Ken didn’t look at Starsky. He answered for both of them. “Nothing. We dropped a dish. Sorry.”

Mr. Hutchinson raised an eyebrow. “Well, clean it up.” He left again.

Dave bent hurriedly and began to pick up pieces of broken dish. “Ah.” He drew a finger to his mouth and sucked on it. 

“Davey. Dave. Let me do that, would you? What’s with you? You’re strung tight as a guitar.” He reached out and touched Dave’s side experimentally. Sure enough, his muscles seemed tensed, and he practically vibrated tension. “Davey.” 

“Get a beatin’,” mumbled Dave, looking down. 

“Nobody’s getting a beating.” He picked up a few shards as well, and nudged Dave. “Hm? Okay?”

Dave glanced at him then, and smiled. “Okay.” They finished with the cleaning and went back to doing dishes.

#

“Can we tell ‘em yet, Starsk?” said Hutch.

“Not yet,” said Starsky, every time. He wanted to be sure, he said. He still wasn’t sure about Hutch’s uncle. “He never hits you, does he? Because if so we’re both leaving.”

“Starsk, you’re paranoid about uncles. Of course he never hits me.”

Hutch reached quickly up to pet his head in the near-darkness. Not fully awake, Starsky flinched from his hand, drawing back and pushing it away, turning his face quickly, a knee-jerk reaction to the expectation of being hit. 

When Starsky wasn’t being tough, Hutch caught a glimpse of just how little Starsky trusted most men. He got quiet and sullen around his teachers, teammates, and coach. He kept his eyes down during class, never asking questions. He avoided spending time with anyone much except Hutch. And when Uncle Bill stood up from the table, Starsky stiffened, and grew very still. He didn’t go back to eating and his shoulders didn’t relax until the man had walked away.

“We’ve got to work on that,” said Hutch one day, raking grass on a Saturday morning.

“What?” Starsky raised his head from the lawn, where he lay chewing the stem of a long piece of grass he’d rescued. 

“Your being scared of men.”

Starsky snorted. “Please. I’m not scared of men.”

Hutch kept raking. He’d taken off his jacket—the work had warmed him—but even so the weather was getting steadily chillier. There wouldn’t be many more lawn chores. It seemed like something you should savor. Starsky lay in a tattered red and black tartan overcoat that had seen better days. He wasn’t working, just hanging out while Hutch did.

“You are scared of men,” said Hutch. “I think you’re scared of everyone except me.”

Starsky snorted. “Please. I am not. I could kick the ass of most anyone. Why the hell would I be afraid?”

Hutch just shook his head. “That’s why you fight. Trying to conquer your fear.”

Starsky raised himself up on his elbows, and stared at Hutch. “Oh, you’re Mr. Feud now?”

“Freud.”

“Froyd? That right? You’re sure it’s not Feud, or Freed?” His eyebrows rose questioningly.

“Pretty sure.”

“Oh.” Starsky flopped back. “Well, I still say you’re wr—” He jerked suddenly, as a shadow fell over him. He grew very still.

Hutch glanced up at Mr. Blaine, and smiled at his approach—then glanced back at Starsky. His eyes had grown very large and watchful. Without his tough-guy mask—and that could only be replaced so quickly—he did look scared, particularly scared by the cop. His shadow had fallen over Starsky’s face, and it moved closer, covering more of him. Starsky stopped chewing, and just watched him.

Hutch cast him a knowing, slightly humorous look, but Starsky didn’t seem to notice him and kept watching the cop.

“Hello, boys. I’ve been meaning to ask you, Ken, if you’re willing to take over the job of snow removal later in the year.”

“You get snow in California?” asked Hutch, surprised.

“Sure do, here in the Northern parts.” He smiled at Hutch, and the area around his eyes crinkled. “You haven’t been here long, have you?”

“No sir. My friend, Starsky, has, though.”

Starsky reached out and punched him in the leg, the silent message clear. _Don’t tell him my name!_

Hutch glanced back at him, apologetic. _Sorry, Starsk._

“Starsky. Hm. That’s a familiar name.” The man’s brow furrowed. Starsky stiffened. “Do you know a Saul Starsky? Lives down on Mulligan Lane?”

“My uncle.” The words squeezed past Starsky’s throat in a tiny croak.

“Well—we had some trouble with him last week. Bar fight. I hope you’re not following in his footsteps?” It was a question, delivered with a friendly smile.

Slowly, Starsky shook his head, his frightened eyes never leaving the cop’s face.

“Well, I’ll let you boys—or rather you, Ken—get back to work. My wife will pay you when you’re done.”

“Thanks, Mr. Blaine.”

As soon as he was gone, Starsky climbed to his feet. “I’m gettin’ outta here. Hangin’ out on a cop’s lawn. What was I thinkin’? Must’ve been nuts,” he mumbled.

“So, your uncle’s in trouble with the law?”

“So what. Nothing new.” Starsky slunk away, hands in his pockets. 

“Where you going?” Hutch raised his voice after him, still holding the rake.

“’Round,” said Starsky.

Hutch blinked. Then he shrugged. Well, they didn’t have to spend every minute together, he supposed. It was nice of Starsky to keep him company while he worked, though. He wished he could do the same at Starsky’s job.

Chapter 6

Sometimes they just drove around in Starsky’s car, riding fast, riding slow; going uphill very slowly and speeding up on the way back down. Hutch hung onto the passenger side door and bit his lip whenever they went over a big bump.

“Ah, you’re scared of bumps!” taunted Starsky.

“I wouldn’t be, if I was driving,” countered Hutch. Starsky rarely let him drive. He claimed his baby responded only to him, and needed the perfect touch.

“I’ve been driving since I was twelve, on my grandpa’s farm,” said Hutch. “I suppose that doesn’t count as skill?”

“An old truck on a dirt road? No way does that compare with this.” Starsky shifted gears expertly, winding down the road. “Someday, I’ll have a fancier car, Hutch. I’ll paint it bright red, an’ you can drive then. But if this car breaks somehow, I don’t want it to be your fault. So let me drive.”

It was hard to argue with logic like that.

“Yeah, well someday I’m gonna have a…” Hutch’s voice trailed off.

Starsky laughed. “Can’t think of anything, can you?”

“Maybe.” Hutch thrummed his fingers on the door. “Maybe I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“You can’t. You can’t think of anything you want in the future. How sad is that?”

“I want Jenny. I want her back. Is that enough?” Great, he was getting short with Starsky.

Starsky glanced at him. “Man, I wish you could get over that. She hasn’t even written to you. If she hasn’t written to you in a month—”

“She would if she could, bozo!”

“Okay, okay.” Starsky raised his hands from the wheel for a moment, and the car was semi-driverless.

“Hands on the wheel!” said Hutch.

Starsky’s hands went back to the wheel. “Why don’t you write to her?”

“Because they won’t tell me where she’s gone, of course.” He pushed his head into his hands. “Damn it.”

Later, he pulled the worn picture from his wallet, looked down at it, and then handed it to Starsky. 

“Did I ever show you Jenny?”

Starsky took it. “She’s real pretty, Hutch.”

“Yeah.” Hutch took it back and stared down at her red hair and her smile. He rubbed his finger across her face, then slid the picture away into his wallet again. “You think the baby will look like her, or me?”

“Maybe it’ll look like both of you.”

“Yeah.” Hutch’s mouth started to crumple, and he turned away. 

“Aw, man, here ya go again. Don’t cry.” Starsky’s arms slid around him, hugging him close. He pressed his face against Hutch’s back. “Stop cryin’, Ken.”

“Can’t help it.”

“I know. But don’t do this to yourself. If you could do something, you would. Don’t torture yourself.”

“What do you know about it? Maybe I deserve a little torture. Leaving them alone like that…”

“Hutch, you told me yourself you didn’t come out here willingly.”

Hutch nodded miserably.

#

One day Hutch walked home, because Starsky had to stay late for football practice. He didn’t worry when he didn’t see Starsky for the next several hours. He didn’t come over for dinner, either. Maybe he’d forgotten some extra work he had to do. Hutch knew he’d reestablish contact soon. He’d never been as close to another guy as he was with Starsky. He wasn’t worried.

He should have been.

He lay awake that night, tossing, turning, and staring at the ceiling with frightened eyes. _I should’ve gone to look for him. It’s too late now. Oh, Starsky, what did you get yourself into?_

There was a knock on his door. It creaked slightly as it slid open. Hutch jumped, and turned to look. 

“Ken? Would you come down here please?” His aunt wrapped her robe around herself, looking serious.

_Oh man._ Hutch glanced at his clock. It was 3 a.m. He padded downstairs, shivering in his pajamas.

At the front door, Uncle Bill stood talking to someone.

“Here he is,” said Aunt Hazel. Bill turned. Past him, Hutch saw…

“Starsky!”

He was red eyed and obviously intoxicated, keeping his head down, shamed. Mr. Blaine had a hold of one of his arms, firmly. The cop also had a fat lip.

At the sound of Ken’s voice, Starsky’s head jerked up. He caught Hutch’s eye pleadingly.

“What did you do?” Hutch moved towards him, shouldering past his aunt and uncle. He stared at Starsky, whose gaze dropped to the ground again.

“I kinda…got drunk,” croaked Starsky.

“You got drunk? You’re sixteen!”

“And it’s illegal for a minor to drink. Yes, that’s one of the…concerns,” said Mr. Blaine. Hutch glanced at his face. It was only swollen slightly. He just hoped that had to do with the dangerous work of a police officer, and not Starsky’s fist…

“And then he climbed the tree in our backyard and tried to climb in the window of the room where my wife and I were sleeping.”

“I thought it was his room,” mumbled Starsky, jutting a hand at Hutch. When he moved his hand, they both moved. Hutch stared down at the handcuffs in dismay.

“You had to cuff him?!”

“I told him he had to get out of our house, and asked what he was doing here. Then young Mr. Starsky took a swing at me.”

“He grabbed my arm an’ started to haul me downstairs,” said Starsky. “I thought he was gonna wail on me.”

“David, I’m a police officer. I don’t wail on people.”

“Thought you were gonna.” Starsky’s mouth had a stubborn—and scared—set. His eyes begged Hutch, _Get me out of this. Get me out of this, please._

Hutch glared at him. _What were you thinking?_ He’d do everything he could, of course, but it wasn’t going to be easy. He was only a kid, too.

Starsky’s gaze dropped again.

“I asked the young man to tell me where he lived. He said with his uncle. I was prepared to take him there and have a talk with his uncle. I really hate the idea of pressing charges against this young man, but he’s done a number of illegal things. Drinking, underage. Breaking and entering. Striking a police officer. This isn’t in the category of pranks, kid.” He gave Starsky’s shoulder a light shake. “This is serious.”

Starsky’s chin stayed down. 

Hutch moved suddenly to stand beside him, so close their arms bumped together. “Why didn’t you take him home?”

“He started kicking up another fuss, telling me now that he didn’t live there after all, he lived with Ken now, and would I please, please take him over here?” Blaine kept his hand on Starsky’s arm. Overall, he seemed reassuringly calm. “So I brought him over to see if you could clear any of this up.” He addressed the aunt and uncle, but glanced at Hutch too, inviting explanation.

Hutch swallowed, hard. He turned to look at his aunt and uncle. “Um…guys…”

They looked at him, exchanged looks, and then looked back at him. “We know, Ken. It’s pretty hard to miss the fact that you’re doing laundry secretly, and there is always an extra wet towel… that you’re constantly saving food…and a dozen other small things. We’ve been waiting for you to say something, but I suppose you don’t trust us that much.”

Hutch blinked at them. “You—you knew?” 

Starsky also looked up at this. His eyes were wet, surprised, and numb. “Why didn’t you kick me out?”

“We figured Ken wouldn’t keep you here if you didn’t need help.” They slid arms around each other, looking serious and a little sad, but not angry. Not angry!

“I—I’m sorry,” said Hutch, dropping his head. “I should’ve asked.” _And would have, too, if Starsky hadn’t been so scared. …Okay, maybe I was scared, too._

“So he has been staying here?” said Blaine. 

“Yes.”

“I see. Would you care to tell me why?” He addressed Starsky. 

“Because…uh…because…” His gaze darted to Hutch, pleadingly. _Help me out here._

“Because his uncle hits him,” said Hutch.

Starsky gave him a shove in the shoulder, and a glare. _You’re not supposed to tell._

“And one time Starsky hit him back, and then his uncle kicked him out of the house,” continued Hutch.

“Hutch,” complained Starsky quietly. “That’s private.”

“Not after you hit a cop.” He kept his eyes off Starsky, giving him the cold shoulder to show he was still upset with him.

“I see,” said Blaine. “Well.” He scratched his chin. “I think this is a little bit too much to sort out tonight. If I release David to you folks, will you please see that he’s here tomorrow, so we can all sit down and deal with this?”

Bill and Hazel looked at Hutch. “No more secrets.”

Hutch nodded, miserably. 

“All right, then. Come on in.”

They stepped inside, and Blaine undid the handcuffs. Starsky immediately rubbed his wrists, and stared around like a paroled man tasting freedom again. Hutch laid a hand on the small of Starsky’s back while the grownups talked. He could feel the tension radiating throughout his body. _Calm down, Starsk. Calm down._

Davey’s arms were trembling. Hutch slid a hand around his middle, and pressed his head against Dave’s back. “Dave. Calm down,” he whispered. He drew back, and gave him a pat. “Hey, you reek. Why not take a shower and get into your pajamas?”

Dave shook his head. “No. I need to talk to you, Hutch.”

“We’ll talk,” promised Hutch. “Shower.” He slid a hand along Davey’s side, and pointed. Starsky sent him a pleading look, but he went, his sneakers slow and careful on the stairs.

“Is he going to be in trouble?” Ken asked after Starsky was gone, edging into the adult conversation. “Or rather, how badly is he going to be in trouble?” He looked at them solemnly. “Are we talking jail?” _And how can I help?_

Blaine grimaced. “I’m not pressing charges and sending that young man to jail. But I also can’t let him get away with this. He’s headed for trouble if he keeps doing things like that. And yes, he could go to jail, if I did press charges. Juvie, at any rate.”

Hutch swallowed. “He won’t do it again. Honest.”

“I’d like to believe that. But he also scared the stuffing out of my wife. We have to find a suitable punishment for him that will teach him a lesson.”

“Don’t hit him,” said Hutch. He left the room quickly, his head down. He sat outside the bathroom and listened to the shower running. He could go in and maybe Starsky could talk over the running water, but he’d have to shout, and that wouldn’t be very private. Also, if it had been Hutch, he’d want some time alone to compose himself. He gave Starsky that time.

Dave emerged with his curls flattened, his (or rather, Hutch’s) pajamas on, and a despairing look on his face. “Hutch…” _Help me._

“Ah, here he is.” Ken’s uncle swooped in. “Come with me, young man. You’re spending the night in the guest room. Just to be sure you don’t decide to leave, I’m locking it. Oh, and there’s no tree outside its window, so don’t even think about climbing down. If you need to go to the restroom during the night, there’s an old chamber pot under the bed.”

He herded firmly, and locked the door. “Get some sleep. You’re going to have an early day tomorrow, young man.” Hutch watched helplessly. “You too, Kenny. Don’t worry so much. We won’t let anything terrible happen.” He gave Hutch a head rub as he walked past; it was a little comforting, actually. His feet sounded heavy on the way down the stairs. He paused at the bottom—Ken still hovered at the door. “Go to bed now, Ken. I mean it.”

Ken waited until they were out of range. “Dave…” He pressed against the door, speaking softly. “Davey. Come talk…”

The door opened at the bottom of the stairs again, and Uncle Bill looked up. “Bed!”

Swallowing, Hutch went. It wasn’t until another hour had passed and his relatives were safely in bed again that he dared creep out. “Davey,” he called at the door. 

“Hutch.” The voice was close, relieved and desperate sounding, and so glad to hear him. “It’s locked. Unlock me?”

“Can’t. Don’t have the key. Davey, what happened? Why’d you do it?”

“I—I got some bad news. I’m sorry, Ken. Didn’t mean to—to…” He made a gulping noise.

“Don’t cry. It’s okay. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it, Davey, I promise. They’re not going to take you away. He said he wouldn’t press charges, just had to think of something else for a punishment. Hear me?” He heard the shuddery, gulping sound that told him Dave was crying, or trying hard not to.

He reached down to the bottom of the door, where there was a small gap. “Davey, I’m down here.” He waggled the tips of his fingers in as far as he could reach. After a moment, he felt cool fingertips touch his. They were shaking a little. “Yeah. It’s all right, Dave. It’s all right. You go to sleep now. I promise. It’s all right.”

“Hutch…” Starsky’s voice, heartbreaking and pleading.

“Shh. I promise. Have I ever lied to you? Go to sleep. I promise, Davey. If worse comes to worse we’ll run away.”

“You—you won’t leave me?”

“No, of course I won’t. I love you.”

“Love you too,” said Starsky tearfully from the other side.

“Okay, we’ll talk tomorrow. I’ve got your back, Dave.” He waited, holding his breath. The fingers slowly withdrew. He went back to his room, and lay staring at the ceiling. He’d forgotten to ask about the bad news. What had it been? Then again, Starsk hadn’t seen in any condition to explain further just then.

At last, he fell asleep. Only to be wakened what felt like moments later, by a shake of the shoulder from his uncle. “Come on, Ken. Up and at ‘em. We’ve all got to have a good talk this morning.”

Yawning and scrubbing at his eyes, Ken joined those seated at the kitchen table—Aunt Hazel, her hands wrapped around a coffee mug, Blaine, already up and wearing his uniform, also with coffee, although he didn’t seem to be drinking it. His eyes took in Ken. 

Ken looked around. “Where’s Dave?”

“Your uncle’s fetching him now.” Aunt Hazel got up, fetched another coffee, and gave it to Ken. 

“Thank you.” He accepted and sipped warily. He’d never been given coffee before. Adults always said it would stunt his growth. He blew on and then tasted the bitter brew, and grimaced. _I’ve had sex, but I’ve never had coffee before. And I kind of hate it. The coffee, not the sex…_ He bit his lip, thinking of Jenny, and what that had cost.

Starsky stumbled into the kitchen, barefoot and swollen eyed, looking sullen. Ken recognized the fear underneath, but he doubted the adults did. “Take a seat,” said Uncle Bill, standing there with his arms crossed. Dave looked around, uncertain and lost.

Hutch pushed his seat back, and jerked his head for Dave to come over, patting his lap. Dave came to him immediately and Hutch pulled him onto his lap, sliding his arms protectively around Davey’s middle, hugging him close.

The adults blinked. 

“Coffee,” said Dave, leaning forward in his arms and peering into Hutch’s mug.

“You can have it.” He kept his arms close around Starsky while he drank under the adults’ eyes, as if that could keep him safe, keep him protected.

Blaine cleared his throat. “Now about your punishment, Starsky. We’ve talked this over, and it can’t be too light.”

Ken tensed. “Please don’t send him away. He’s learned his lesson, haven’t you, Starsk?” He nudged Starsky. 

Dave cleared his throat. “’m sorry I hit you. Sorry I scared your wife and drank.” He mumbled it, his accent thick. “An’ made a mistake ‘bout the windows.”

Hutch could have grimaced. That was a terrible apology. The worst thing was, he knew Starsky meant every word, but the adults were looking at him dubiously, like a puppy that had wet the floor. If only Starsky’s face didn’t go all closed and sullen around adults! _Starsky…_ Well, there wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t apologize for him…could he?

“We’ll do extra chores,” he offered. “No charge. We’ll make it up to you.”

“Ken,” said Blaine, sighing, running a hand back through his hair, “this isn’t about you. I’ve no doubt you take this seriously—but you’re not the one that has to. Dave has to.”

“He does.”

They looked frankly skeptical. Hutch nudged him. “Don’t you, Davey?”

“Uh-huh.” He was getting tensed and scared and sullen and bulky on Hutch’s lap. 

He nudged him again. “What he means is, he’s learned his lesson, haven’t you?” _C’mon. Don’t sit there like a lump…be convincing!_

“Ken,” said Uncle Bill, warningly. “Stop talking now.”

Dave’s eyes shot to Uncle Bill’s face, frankly assessing. He seemed to be ignoring the trouble he was in and weighing the trouble Hutch was in.

“Dave, we’re taking away your car keys. For two weeks,” said John Blaine.

“My car!” Starsky let out the strangled words.

Blaine nodded. “Yes, Dave. If you’re going to drink, you’re not safe driving.”

Starsky’s head went down, sullen-looking. “Okay. Two weeks.”

“And you’re going to do chores around the house for my wife for that long, as well. I know you don’t like me, Dave, don’t trust me—although I don’t know why; I don’t go around hurting boys. But you can do the chores when I’m out of the house, as long as you behave yourself and don’t intimidate my wife.”

“Wouldn’t,” mumbled Dave.

“What’s that?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Good. And after two weeks—if you’re staying clean of alcohol, and not getting into further trouble, well, then we’ll see about getting your keys back.”

Dave just sat there, still on Ken’s lap, his face sullen and stony. “That it? C’n I go now?”

They looked annoyed. “Go,” said Uncle Bill. “Get ready for school. You’ll have to leave early since you have to walk. You too, Kenny.”

Starsky got up and swaggered from the room. The adults watched him go, and then seemed to be exchanging looks in secret adult code. Like they thought Starsky hadn’t paid any attention to them at all.

Ken rose, too. “You’re wrong, you know. Dave’s sorry.” They turned to stare at him, and he left the room, quickly, ducking upstairs after Dave.

He turned the corner, and almost bumped into him. Starsky had waited for him. 

“Ken.” He closed his arms around Hutch, his voice small. He was biting his lip, trying to keep control of his emotions. Hutch held him. 

“Shh. It’s okay, isn’t it? Didn’t I tell you? No one’s gonna hurt you. Two weeks. We can handle that, can’t we?” He petted Starsky’s head and back.

“Got you in trouble, too.”

“No, no. I’m fine. My uncle’s not mad at me. Just frustrated, maybe. They didn’t seem to think you meant it when you said sorry. You…didn’t really sound like you meant it, Starsk.”

“I did.”

“I know. Come on. We’ve got to get dressed.” He caressed Starsky’s head one last time, and drew away from him. Starsky let go reluctantly. He followed Hutch around, nervously, not concentrating on getting changed, trying to get more reassurance. His hand darted out and touched Ken’s arm, and he looked at him, questioning, needy.

“Davey, it’s okay, I promise.” He drew Dave into another quick hug, and felt his muscles trembling a little. “I promise.”

While they walked to school, trudging in the fall lanes where once they had flown, Dave finally told him what had got him started drinking last night.

“Coach said I’m off the team if I can’t get my grades up.” He scuffed his feet along the gravel road, sending sheets of it ahead, skittering, keeping his head down. “Only, I’ve been workin’ real hard—you’ve seen me. Haven’t I been studying? And I’m still only getting a few Cs and mostly Ds. I put in almost as many hours as you do, and you get As! I can’t get better grades. I guess I’m just dumb. An’ now I’m not gonna get to play football anymore an’…” His voice choked off, despairingly. “What’s the point?”

“Davey, you’re not dumb. You remember almost everything you hear. What’s the problem?”

“Dunno. When I read the books, the words don’t stick with me. They…swarm around on the page and don’t make sense. I have to read a sentence two or three times, and when I get to the end of the page, I’m mostly more confused than when I started.”

“I’ll help you, okay?”

“But you’ve been helping me, and it hasn’t helped, Hutch!” His voice rose in frustration, and he kicked at the gravel.

“Then I’ll help you more. Look, you can remember fine when you hear it, right?”

“Right.”

“So what’s the problem? I’ll just read all our assignments out loud, and we can discuss them.”

“Discussing’s one thing…writing essays…answerin’ quizzes…that’s another. I’m just dumb on paper, Hutch. You know I am.”

“I do not. Now let’s take it one thing at a time. I’ll read aloud all our assignments. We’ll work on exams next. Maybe spelling…”

Starsky glanced at him, embarrassed, frowning a little. “Hutch, you’re too good to me.”

Ken caught up to him, and gave him a little shove. “You know it.”

Starsky shoved back, grinning.

Chapter 7

It took longer to read the assignments aloud than to read them quietly to himself, and his mouth got dry, and tired of talking. But Starsky paid attention, quiet, intense attention. He didn’t always sit still; sometimes he walked around the room, bouncing a ball up and down in his hand, or trying to juggle with several. Ken learned he listened just as well or better when he was occupied this way. On nice days, he lay in the grass next to Hutch, listening to the words, closing his eyes and concentrating hard while the sun dappled on his face. 

He stopped him once in awhile, and asked, “What’s that word mean?” And if Hutch knew, he told him. At the end of each assignment, he got Starsky to explain the material back to him. And Starsky would parrot it back in his own words. They both learned a lot this way. Hutch felt like he knew the material backwards and forwards. And he knew Starsky was trying, knew he had to be learning.

One day Starsky was ranging the room, listening, and Hutch lay on back on his bed, his ankles crossed, reading slowly, and stopping to take sips of water from a glass on the bed stand. Starsky’s footsteps stopped, and he came over. The bed creaked and he lay down next to Hutch, watching the words. On impulse, Hutch ran a finger under the words as he read. Starsky leaned closer to watch, snuggling up next to him and concentrating hard on the text. 

Their eyelids grew heavy... Hutch woke up with the book propped on his belly, and Starsky curled next to him, drooling on his arm.

After Starsky moved in, they spent even more time together. Ken noticed he seemed especially jumpy around evening. He got edgy, and if someone walked up behind him, he jumped. Ken reached out to touch him one time, planning to ask if something was wrong. Dave jumped a mile high. 

“Davey. Davey.” Ken herded him into the corner of the bedroom, back against the wall. “What? Hm? Look at me.” Davey was trembling, all tensed up. Ken nudged him, and stayed close until Dave looked up and gave him his shamefaced attention.

“What?” said Hutch.

“Don’t want to talk ‘bout it,” mumbled Dave.

Ken looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” He released him, and moved away to his desk to get out his math homework. 

“Ken. Wait. Don’t be mad. I’ll tell you.”

“I’m not mad, Davey—” He turned to explain to Dave, but the curly-haired boy plowed into him, wrapping him around the middle in a tight hug.

“Davey. It’s okay. Hey. Let me go, okay? Hm?” He jiggled Dave’s arms up and down, but his hands stayed stuck.

“Mm,” said Davey, mashing his face against Hutch and rubbing it around. “I don’t care. I don’t care. You’re not like him.”

“Like who? Dave?” 

“Uncle,” mumbled Dave, drawing back a little. He looked at Ken, apologetic scared, and earnest. “Used to beat me every night ‘round sundown. Said it would…would make me grow up better.”

Ken swallowed, hard. “Did it?” he asked, keeping his voice even with an effort.

Dave shook his head. “At first, I just…wanted him to love me. I was…kinda glad to come out here, an’ meet my uncle an’ my aunt…get away from the trouble in New York, an’ thinkin’ maybe they’d have more time for me. My mom was pretty occupied and harried with work an’ everything…and…I thought, maybe they’ll love me. 

“I think my Auntie did. But…but my uncle…just got his belt out an’ gave me a whipping in the woodshed, every evening. I…wanted to go home. I wanted him to like me. But…he never seemed to. An’ then, when my auntie died, he got to hittin’ me even more, an’—an’…” He buried his face against Ken’s shirt again. “Don’t care,” he mumbled. “You’re not like him.”

“All right. I’m not like him. How about this, Davey?” He held Dave at arm’s length and gave him a gentle smile. “How about we start a new tradition? When it gets to be evening, and you start thinking about your uncle hitting you, you just come find me and I’ll give you a hug instead. Hm?”

“A real hug? Not just a ‘Ken’s bored, but he’ll put up with Davey’ hug?”

“Do I do that?”

“Sometimes.” Dave shrugged, looking embarrassed.

“Well, come on, and I’ll give you a real hug now.” He drew Davey towards the bed, and held him close. Starsky stayed very still in his hug, soaking it in, as if he were listening hard for something.

Ken sat holding him, a troubled, sad, angry feeling growing inside him, bigger and bigger. How could anyone have hit Dave? Even now, football player and all, he so often seemed like a little boy with a mop of curly hair and wistful eyes. How could anyone have hit a wistful-eyed twelve-year-old grieving boy, who just wanted to be loved?

Sometimes Starsky was so needy, Hutch had no idea how to fill him up with affection. He woke up one morning to find Starsky staring at him, just watching him sleep. He looked the way he used to look when he was hungry and trying not to eat too much. Hutch brought a sleep-clumsy hand up and rubbed his face. Starsky nudged closer to him and leaned his head against Hutch’s arm, breathing shakily, holding tightly onto his bicep.

Finally, whatever it was passed, and he drew back and smiled a little, and said “Thanks, Hutch.” At times like these, all Hutch knew to do was hold him, and promise he wasn’t going anywhere.

That still seemed to haunt Starsky. While Hutch woke up with cries of Jenny from time to time, for Starsky it was the word ‘Dad.’ 

“Daddy…Dad!” he called, tears streaming down his face, thrashing around. He smacked Hutch accidentally in the mouth. Hutch’s head rang. 

“Starsky. Dave.” Hutch pulled him closer. The curly-headed boy was shaking and resisting. “It’s me, Hutch. It’s just a dream. Come here.” He stroked his arm and tugged him closer.

“Don’t know why you bother. You’re just gonna leave too,” mumbled Starsky. But he let Hutch pull him closer, and finally curled unresisting and trembling onto Hutch’s lap.

Sometimes when he was stressed like this, he made little whimpering sounds in his throat, and reaching for Hutch again and again, as if to make sure he was still really there. It always took a lot of soothing before he could go back to sleep. 

Talking about it didn’t seem to fix the problem, but often Hutch could distract and calm him with other topics. Other times, he hugged Starsky and petted his head endlessly, promising to never, ever leave. Starsky’s scared eyes would look into his searchingly, again and again, every time Hutch promised, Starsky often biting his lip, as if trying to see if Hutch was telling the truth. He seemed so young then, it scared Hutch. He was as gentle as he could be with Starsky then. 

The two weeks passed, and sure enough, Starsky’s grades improved. He had also made fast friends with Mrs. Blaine, who always had a snack for him, and something to talk about while he did chores. Hutch came over once or twice, but when he saw the two of them together, happily washing and drying dishes, and Starsky actually talking, he knew he wasn’t needed. He slipped outside again, and sat on the porch, to wait for Starsky. He wanted to study, but there was no point doing it twice.

Mr. Blaine’s car pulled up, and he got out and walked up the path. “Hello, Ken. Waiting for your friend?” He sat down companionably beside Hutch, who moved over a little to make room.

Ken nodded. “I think he likes these chores. I don’t think it’s much of a punishment.” Then he wished he hadn’t spoken. 

Blaine laughed. Threw back his head and laughed. “Good! That’s what I was hoping for. My wife’s good with kids. If anyone can get him talking, she can.”

_I can,_ thought Hutch, secretly proud and a little protective of their private closeness.

“You two are something, though,” said Mr. Blaine. “I almost never see you two apart. It’s like you’re joined at the hip.”

“Well, not exactly. Starsky’s my best friend, that’s all.”

“Is it?” Blaine looked at him, almost quizzical.

Hutch blinked up at him, tilting his head sideways. “What do you mean?” 

He felt like he had when he was a kid and he’d said “shoot,” and one of his mother’s friends had cornered him, and said, “That was shoot, right? ‘Shoot,’ not something else?” 

He’d felt like he was missing something. When he was a little kid, he hadn’t even known ‘shit’ was a word. Now he didn’t know what Blaine was asking with his eyes.

“Nothing.” Blaine looked away. He drummed his hands on his knees. “Well, I’d best interrupt them. Don’t want to miss out on my supper if those two get to talking.” He got up and went inside.

A few moments later, Davey’s head popped out, and his sneakers took him whisking down the stairs. He still wore an apron.

“Davey,” said Hutch, sliding his hands around Starsky, catching him. The apron still felt warm and wet from dishwater. “You forgot something.” He leaned against Dave’s neck, smelling his sweat and soapiness.

“Oh, heck.” Dave pulled free and ran up the steps again, ripping off the apron. “H-here ya go, Mister Blaine.” He shoved it in through the door, into the hands of the cop who’d been watching them.

Then he dashed back down the steps to Ken, and on towards their home. “What’s it today? History?” His arm slid around Ken’s back.

“Yeah. Charlemagne.” He put an arm around Davey as well, and they walked home like that.

#

They had separate rooms now, but almost every night, they ended up curled together in one bed. On the cold nights, the extra warmth was welcome, and it really helped them both to have someone to talk to. 

Hutch talked about Jenny, about his dad’s expectations, about life. Starsky talked about his dad, what he remembered of him, and how sometimes he couldn’t remember him at all. He wistfully wondered how his mother and little brother were getting along without him in New York.

Sometimes Dave played with Hutch’s hair while they talked, alternately smoothing and messing it up, and rolling pieces between his fingers. His aunt always wondered why Ken’s hair looked like a rat’s nest in the morning. 

He was the more tactile of the two, it seemed to Hutch. Starsky always seemed to need to reestablish contact, reach out and poke or touch him or pick at his hair. 

But every time he found himself thinking this, he started to notice all the times he reached for Dave first. Maybe they were even. Dave reached for him more at night, when his barriers were down, when he seemed needy. Ken tended to need a connection during the day, when he was just trying to make it through. He’d touch Dave’s arm, brush past him, or just stand near him, wanting to not be alone, wanting that comforting presence to somehow get him through another day.

#

“Davey, look. My first Californian byline!” Hutch pointed to a column on the school newspaper’s second page, holding the paper up and grinning.

Starsky cast him a quick grin.

Walking by, one of Starsky’s large teammates looked suddenly at them and stopped. “Ooh, _Davey_ , looook!” he mocked, raising his voice, using a ‘girl voice.’ “Ooh, Davey, Davey, look at meeee. I can write in the paper. I can push a pencil a-roooound.” 

He found himself slammed up against the wall, Starsky breathing in his face, teeth showing. “You wanna say that again? You wanna say that again and get your face mashed in, and get us both kicked off the team—you ‘cuz you can’t play for the rest of the year, and me for smearing your guts on the wall? Huh? How’s that sound to you?”

“Starsk. Starsk.” Hutch pulled on his arm. “Knock it off. Come on. The team.” He tried to get his attention. With Starsky in this zone, it wasn’t easy. 

A couple of other teammates arrived just then, and pulled Starsky off, and led his (very relieved, but trying-to-look-tough) teammate away.

Starsky stood glaring, frowning, breathing hard. His teammates swatted him on the back a few times, gave him a couple of pushes on the shoulder. “You’re all right. You’re all right,” repeated the team captain. Hutch recognized him vaguely as Lexman. Starsky had said he’d taken it upon himself to keep trouble off his team, since the coach laid down the law about fighting. “Go on.” Lexman gave Starsky a shove, and Starsky strode down the hall, dark and dangerous. 

Lexman shook his head and let his breath out. “That guy is a nut job.”

Hutch didn’t know what to say. He took his paper—it had somehow gotten crushed in the melee—and followed Starsky.

Starsky didn’t calm down enough to talk to until they were on their way home. “Maybe I shouldn’t call you ‘Davey’ at school,” suggested Hutch, quietly, a little hesitantly.

“No.” Starsky shook his head, frowning ahead through the windshield, concentrating hard on driving. “Then they win.” He fell silent. 

Hutch hugged his book bag, and kept quiet. He didn’t want Starsky getting in trouble over him, but he didn’t know how to say it. 

“And for the record,” said Starsky, “you and me is the only team that matters. Everything else comes second. If I don’t defend that then I’m not much of a teammate, am I?”

“Dave…” Hutch sighed. “You don’t have to do this. You’re just…making us something to talk about. Now instead of us being slightly eccentric friends, we’re…we’re nut jobs, and people can’t say anything about us or you’ll fly off the handle. And by the way, I thought you were doing better about that. Look, do I give a damn if some guy makes fun of me? No. Who cares? I don’t.”

“Hutch. I saw your ears go red.”

“My ears go red all the time, and you don’t smash people against the wall for it.”

“Yeah—usually because someone tells a dirty joke. Not ‘cuz they’re mocking you. I’m not gonna put up with it, Hutch, and that’s final.”

“Starsky…” He raised his hands and sighed loudly. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Feed me, hold me, and keep me forever,” said Starsky, without going red once.

“’Davey,’” said Hutch, shaking his head, speaking in a half mocking, half teasing voice.

Dave cast him an amused glance. “Kenny.”

#

Starsky helped out around the house. He did chores, and paid part of his income for room and board. In exchange, he got kitchen privileges, all the supper, breakfast, and lunch he could eat, and his own room. It stayed clean, because he usually hung out in Hutch’s. 

He was eager to please around the house, so much so that Aunt Hazel declared him a regular pleasure to live with, and said they were both “such good boys.” This was high praise, considering the things they’d both done to end up here.

Now that he was around him more, and saw his various sides, Starsky stopped fearing Hutch’s uncle. He began to see the kindness beneath the curmudgeon, the steady, distracted man who would never lash out and give someone a backhand across the mouth. 

He didn’t even get nervous the time Aunt Hazel and Uncle Bill sat the boys down to talk to them.

“Is there a problem with your room, Dave? We notice you never seem to use it.”

Ken and Dave exchanged looks, and then looked back to them. “Well, it’s cold,” said Ken, for both of them. “We like sleeping in the same bed. It stays warmer.”

“We can turn the heat up,” suggested Uncle Bill. “Surely it’s uncomfortable, sharing such a small bed.”

Ken and Dave looked at each other again. It was true; two teenage boys, one stocky and restless, one long and slim and awkward, were not the best choice for a single bed. It could be downright awkward, and difficult to find enough room for comfortable sleeping. So far, however, neither had found it uncomfortable enough to leave.

“Well, it’s not that comfortable sometimes, but we like to talk before going to sleep, too.” He certainly wasn’t going to mention the other need to be together, the way they relied on each other when one was upset or scared, and just needed to be held.

“Couldn’t you talk, and then Dave could go back to his room?”

Ken shrugged. “It doesn’t work like that. Sometimes you don’t think of what you need to say until you’re almost asleep.”

“Yeah, and then he wakes me up to say it,” said Dave. He nudged closer, bumping Ken with his knee so he’d know he was teasing. “But honest, Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson. We—we just don’t like to be apart that much.”

Mr. Hutchinson frowned slightly. “Frankly, I don’t think it’s quite healthy for you boys to sleep together so much.”

“Healthy?” Hutch blinked at him. “Huh?” 

Starsky waited for an explanation, too, one of his hands draped over Ken’s shoulder.

Aunt Hazel touched Uncle Bill lightly on the arm. He’d looked as though he were about to say something; now, he looked at her, and didn’t.

“You need your sleep,” said Aunt Hazel to the boys.

“Yeah, well, we do sleep. At least when he keeps his elbow out of my back.” Hutch jerked a thumb at Starsky. 

Starsky grabbed his thumb and pulled it down. “Look who’s talkin’,” he growled. “You’re the one with the clumsy knees.”

Uncle Bill watched them a moment, and then he gave a small nod. “All right. We’ll turn the heat up, and we’ll move Dave’s bed into your room, Kenny. Then you’ll both have room, and you can still be near each other. But I expect you boys to sleep, not just stay up all night talking. You’re still growing, you know.”

“I know.” Dave bounced up from the couch happily. “I’m gonna be bigger than him before I’m through!” He pointed at Ken.

Ken snorted. “Not on your life, bozo. I’m two and a half inches taller than you already.”

“Yeah, and skinny as a stringbean.”

Aunt Hazel wiped her hands on her apron, and rose. “If you boys are going to fight, do it outside.”

“Okay. We’re going.” They wandered outside, still arguing. The kitchen door banged behind them. Aunt and uncle stayed in the living room, talking quietly.

Sometimes the boys played sports together in the backyard. Dave threw baseballs for Ken, and Ken threw football passes for Dave.

Sometimes they borrowed one of Aunt Hazel’s laundry baskets and nestled it up in the willow tree, and practiced making baskets, blocking each other and travelling and intercepting. Their ball didn’t bounce very well, and the basket wasn’t the right height, but they had fun with it.

The beds were moved. Once in awhile, they still fell asleep in the same bed, but the new arrangement gave them more room and caused fewer accidental bruises or knocks about with the thumpings of knees and elbows and foreheads. They kept the two beds pushed near each other so they could talk quietly and still hear each other. And true to their words, the Hutchinsons turned the heat higher upstairs.

#

One Saturday morning, Hutch woke up alone, the other bed empty, covers already tugged smooth. He blinked around, then got up, slipped his feet into slippers, and wandered downstairs. He found Starsky in the living room, with the TV on low. Starsky sat on the floor, cross-legged, leaning back against the couch, one arm stretched out on it. He was watching cartoons.

Hutch shuffled to the bathroom, then poured himself a glass of milk and drank it, set the cup in the sink, rinsed it out, and wandered in. 

“Davey.” 

Dave nodded, not looking up from the cartoons. He was concentrating hard, as if this was Shakespeare instead of Tom and Jerry. Hutch stretched out on the couch behind him, and laid a hand to rest on his curly head. “Little kid,” he said fondly. He flopped back and closed his eyes again, to sleep to the sound of cartoon mayhem.

“Kenny.” Aunt Hazel’s stern voice awoke him some indeterminate time later. He opened his eyes and raised his head. She had her hand on her hips. Dave looked up, too.

“What?” Starsky asked, for both of them.

“Don’t you make Dave sit on the floor. Sit up. There’s room for both of you.” She swatted his long legs, which were hanging out over the end of the couch.

Dave and Starsky blinked, and looked at each other—shocked. Of course he’d never keep Starsky off the couch, if he wanted to be there. 

But how to explain that? It was easier to sit up and for Starsky to join him on the couch. Starsky sat down, pulling his legs up and crossing them in front of him. His knee bumped against Hutch.

Hutch gave it a little shove. Starsky glanced at him, and moved over. Hutch flopped sideways, his head landing on Starsky’s thigh, and curled uncomfortably small on his half of the couch. He closed his eyes again and went to sleep.

Chapter 8

“Aw, what happened to your curls?”

Starsky sat grim and forlorn on a kitchen chair, a sheet wrapped tightly around his body, constricting at his neck. His hair had been chopped short, and lay in little curly piles around the floor. Now his mane lay close cropped to his head, and he looked worried, uncomfortable—a little scared when he looked up at Hutch.

“You don’t like it?”

“He was starting to look like a wild beast,” said Aunt Hazel, not looking up, still walking around his head, taking a snip here and there with kitchen scissors. She’d shorn him!

_My wild beast,_ thought Hutch. He walked up, and scooped a couple of curls off the ground. At Starsky’s grin, he threw some of them into his face. Starsky spluttered and spat and turned away, causing Hazel to exclaim “Sit still! I don’t want to cut your ear off!”

“Me neither!” said Starsky, eyes widening. He sat very still, rigid, looking straight ahead.

In the uproar, Hutch slipped the last bit of curls into his jeans pockets, and walked by, tracking lines of hair across the kitchen. He got himself a snack. Starsky’s eyes watched longingly as he spread peanut butter and jelly thickly on two pieces of bread. He tracked Hutch as he walked past, his face getting hungrier and hungrier looking, more and more solemn and thin and pale, as if he could at will put on the appearance of a starving orphan. Hutch took a bite and then held his sandwich out for Starsky. 

Dave took a giant bite. His expression lightened to one of bliss as he chewed. Hutch touched Starsky’s lips, brushing crumbs off, and kept eating as he walked past.

“You don’t like my haircut?” said Starsky that night.

“I like you curly.” Hutch leaned across the divide between their beds and scrubbed Starsky’s head experimentally with knuckles, then dug in with his fingers. The hair was so short it mostly stood up now, at different angles, like an unruly scrub brush. “She shouldn’t have cut it so short.”

“It’ll grow back.” Starsky reached across the divide and squeezed Ken’s arm affectionately.

“I still like you, even when I don’t like your hair,” said Ken. He smiled in the dark.

Starsky laughed. “She’s gonna do you tomorrow.”

#

Dave stood smoking in his room, leaning on the open windowsill and blowing the smoke outside. 

“Dave, what ya doing?” Hutch walked up behind him. 

Starsky jumped. “Oh, it’s you.” He turned back to smoking. 

“Glad to see me, huh?” Hutch slid his arms around Dave, and tickled his chest a little.

“Knock it off.” Starsky squirmed, and pushed his hands down. “It’s too cold outside. Don’t let ‘em catch me, would ya?”

“Thus ends the career of an inveterate suck-up. For a cigarette he… Okay, okay.” The elbow had caught him in the ribs. He released Starsky.

“I love ya, Hutch but you can be a pain.”

“This coming from you! Do you think they won’t notice the room is freezing? And smells like smoke?” He waved his hand exaggeratedly in the air, and coughed.

“Ah, you’re a killjoy.”

“Smoking is joy now? You stink, Starsk. Your clothes stink, your hair stinks, your breath stinks…”

“Okay! I get it! I smell.” He blew another breath outside, and tamped the cigarette’s stub out on a tin lid. He dumped it outside and watched the ashes land among the bushes, then closed the window and turned to frown at Hutch. “Happy?”

“Happier if you gave it up. Don’t you worry about it hurting your wind?”

“I’ll worry when someone gets faster than me.”

#

“Dave, what’s wrong?” He’d been starting up the path to the house, and then saw Dave’s expression. Dave sat glumly on the bottom step, looking the way he looked when he was trying not to cry.

“Davey?” Hutch sat down, slung his book bag on the step and put an arm around Dave, hugging him nearer. “What’s wrong?”

“Miss my mom,” said Dave in a small voice.

“Well, why don’t you call her? Between us, I’m sure we can afford the long-distance—”

Dave shook his head. “Won’t work. I only call her twice a year. If I call now, she’ll know something’s wrong,” he said in his low, flat voice so devoid of its usual character. “She’ll figure out I moved out and make me move back.”

Ken pulled him closer, wrapping both arms around him. “You sure?”

“Mm-hm.” Davey sounded like he was choking. Ken let him go and patted his knee, not sure what to say or do.

“David.” Mrs. Hutchinson’s voice was stern from the door. “Do you mean to tell me you haven’t called your mother and let her know where you are?”

Both boys craned their heads to look back up at her. Dave shook his head.

“You get in the house right now and call her this minute.” At her stern voice, Starsky cast Hutch a despairing look, and rose and went.

#

“Ma! It’s not like that. My uncle was…was…well, he was hittin’ me a lot, Ma.” 

Silence. 

“No, I didn’t deserve it.” 

Silence. 

“Well, he did. After my aunt died…” 

A pause.

“Mommy, would you just…” Starsky raked a hand back through his hair and turned, blinking thoughtfully, his face worried-looking. His eyes fell on Ken, sitting on the couch with his hands in his lap, waiting, staying for moral support. Dave’s gaze looked distance, engaged elsewhere. He barely seemed to see Ken before he turned to look elsewhere.

“No, Ma. I’m stayin’ with a friend.” Pause. “Ken. Hutchinson. And his aunt and uncle. I’m payin’ board and every—”

Silence. Dave wrapped the cord around his finger, tight. The end of his finger went red under the pressure.

“No, Mom. They’re not Jewish. It doesn’t—” He glanced at Ken again, worried, eyebrows drawing together. “Ma… Ma!” his voice was sharp, now. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll—talk to ya later.” He paused. “Can I—talk to Nicky? No? Well, tell him when he gets back, to stay out of trouble for me, okay?” A beat. “Yes, Ma! I’m staying out of… I love you too. I’ll call you tomorrow. Bye, Ma.”

He hung up the phone and drew a shaky breath, rubbing both hands back through his short hair. He turned to Hutch with a harried expression.

“I don’t miss my mom anymore.”

Ken raised his eyebrows in sympathy—although in reality, he had no idea what it would be like to have a mother like Starsky’s, who was obviously bouncing off the roof worrying about him. Ken’s mother was cool and silent and sometimes icily cold.

“Well?” Aunt Hazel looked at Dave, her expression still disapproving.

“She—” He swallowed. “I’m gonna call back tomorrow, let her get used to the idea.” He turned and trotted upstairs, quickly, before they could ask him any more questions.

That night, when Ken was starting to drift off, fingers touched his chest, lightly, gently.

Ken’s eyes blinked sleepily open. “What’s wrong, Starsk? Hm?”

Starsky’s eyes flashed, startled and grateful. “Oh, Kenny. Sorry I woke you.” He laid a hand against Ken’s chest, rubbing it lightly.

“What, Davey?” Ken gave a giant yawn.

“Man, I can see your tonsils…” Dave peered closer.

“Dave!”

“All right, all right,” he grumbled, easing back a little. “She called you a…a goy.” He lowered his voice.

“So? What’s that mean?”

“It means you’re a gentile.”

“Well. That’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, Kenny, but the way she said it. Like you were dirty or somethin’.”

“Davey.”

“What?” He looked up.

“You say it. You call me that, in your own way.” He laid a hand on Dave’s shoulder, and looked at him.

“A-all right. Kenny, you’re...a goy.” And then, gently and fondly, “Golden goy.” He reached out and touched Ken’s hair, and smiled faintly in the dark room.

“That’s the way,” said Ken. “That’s the way she’ll say it, someday. When she knows me, she’ll like me. And if she doesn’t, you still will.” He cuffed the side of Starsky’s head, clumsy and affectionate in his sleepiness. “My dark and Jewish brother.”

#

Hutch’s long legs took him galumphing down the stairs. “Auntie, can I borrow the record player? Starsky wants to listen to a record.”

She glanced up from the pie dough she was cutting together. “Sure. Just be careful with it.”

“Thanks.” He opened the door and shouted up, “Starsk! It’s okay. Help me carry it,” and then left the door open. Starsky’s tread took him downstairs fast and light. He landed in a crouch, grinning at Hutch. 

“Let me at it. Apparently it’s too heavy for little ol’ you.”

Hutch stuck his tongue out. “Have you looked it recently? Besides, one guy can drop something easier than two.”

“ _Au revoir_ ,” said Starsky. “Have you carried anything tandem lately?”

“It’s ‘ _au contraire_ ,’ bozo. Take that end.” They lifted the huge, ancient black instrument, grunting, shuffling towards the stairs. 

“M-maybe we should’ve listened to it down here,” said Starsky breathlessly. Even for two strong teenage boys, it was nearly immovable. “Set it down a sec.”

“Okay. I’ll ask.” They set it down carefully, and Hutch went out to the kitchen again. He returned, colt-like and fleet on his long legs and knobby knees.

“Okay. Yeah, it’s okay. Just roll up the rug.” 

Starsky snorted. “Please. Like we’re going to be dancing that much. And I, at any rate, don’t trip over rugs.”

Hutch didn’t say anything, just bent to roll it up. Dave watched him for a minute, then bent and helped.

“You’ve got it?”

“Yeah, I’ll get it.” Dave took off up the steps again. Hutch listened, wondering how he’d perfected the art of running upstairs nearly silently.

Starsky returned carrying a record in a battered paper sleeve under his arm.

“How’d you do that, Starsk?”

“Huh?” He slipped the record out and laid it carefully on the turntable, glancing at Hutch.

“Run stairs so quietly.”

“Oh. It’s easy—just use your toes, like. Kind of balance on the end of your feet and run.”

“Oh. How do you keep your balance?”

Starsky shrugged. “It’s not hard. Practice. Then again, since we’re talking about _you…_ ” He clicked his fingers and started to move. “There we go. Here comes the music, Kenny.”

Hutch sat on the couch. He tapped a foot on the floor and nodded his head to the tune of ‘Mack the Knife.’ “Nice.”

Meanwhile, Starsky was jiving around the room, getting into the beat, dancing like he was born to it.

“You’re good, Davey.” Hutch beat a hand on his leg, nodding along.

Dave opened his eyes and squinted down at Hutch. “What? You’re not dancing? Come on! What do you think this is, a free show? Get your moves on!”

“Uh, that’s the thing. I don’t have any.”

Starsky’s eyebrows were skeptical. “Everybody does.”

“Well, uh, not me. I can’t dance.”

Starsky gave him a perturbed look, and then turned away and continued dancing by himself, moving with his eyes closed, completely uninhibited. The song ended, and he stopped dancing and lifted the armature. “Okay. Your turn. Start at the beginning. Just move around to the music. I’m gettin’ a snack.” He headed for the kitchen. The song began again.

Hutch got up hesitantly, looked to be sure no one was watching, and risked a couple of sways, a leg kick, a few moves of his hands. 

“Not bad.”

Hutch stopped, his face flaming at the sound of Starsky’s voice.

“Go on, lug. Keep at it. I won’t watch if you’re _scared._ ” Starsky sat down on the couch, carrying an apple. He took a big, satisfying bite of it, and closed his eyes, squeezing them shut exaggeratedly. “See? I’m not lookin’,” he said indistinctly. “Go ‘head an’… dance.”

Hutch watched him doubtfully for a moment, then turned his back, and began a little more experimentation. The song was halfway over by now. He tried to throw himself into it, the way Starsky had done, but all his movements felt gawky, awkward, and wrong. His knees shot out too far, his giant feet lost control, he was lucky not to trip and smash his face in—even without a carpet to trip him up.

At last, the inevitable. As the song wound down, Hutch’s foot shot out, caught the edge of the coffee table they’d pushed back, and he stumbled. The table made a loud, scary, scraping sound across the wood floor, and Hutch hopped away on one foot, windmilling his arms, biting his lip, and desperately trying to catch his balance.

Starsky jumped up from the couch and grabbed his shoulders before he could fall.

“You _were_ watching,” fumed Hutch, his face flaming. He jerked away from Starsky’s hand.

“Shut up,” said Starsky. “You’re terrible.”

“I know.” Hutch’s head drooped.

“Schlemiel,” said Starsky, smiling at him.

Hutch looked up. “What’s that mean?” 

“It means you’re clumsy and not safe around china—and I love ya to pieces. C’mon. Watch me now, an’ try to get it.” He started the song again, and Hutch moved despairingly back to the middle of the room where he could cause less damage, and set himself to watch, and, theoretically, to learn.

#

“Ken! Come look!” called Starsky excitedly from the bathroom.

Hutch took off round the corner and stumble-ran into the bathroom, flinging the door open. “What?!”

Starsky stood in front of the mirror, arms proudly flexed above his head, chest puffed out and bare, grinning at his reflection. Hutch’s turned sour. “You can grow chest hair. Wonderful.”

“Just because some people are practically hairless…”

“I am not having this conversation.” _I can’t believe he called me in here to brag about his chest hair! I thought something was wrong._ Hutch turned and started to leave the room.

“Wait, Hutch. That’s not it.” He caught his shirt sleeve and pulled him back—Hutch stumbled a little, and Starsky caught him in a kind of bear hug, then let him go and pointed to the mirror again. “Look! I’m bruise-free!” He grinned, looking thrilled. “I can—I can shower if I want after practice, and go on steamy dates…well, if any girls are still interested in me… and…and…swim without having to go alone!”

“It’s too cold to swim,” said Hutch prosaically. He pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the bathroom sink.

Starsky wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, well, ya would say that.” He turned and flexed, admiring his reflection. “I still say…wow! I’m free of bruises.”

Hutch reached out, and pinched his side. “Now you’ve got another.”

“Ow!” Starsky swatted the hand away.

Hutch grinned at him evilly. “You really should put a shirt on, Davey. Somebody might be tempted to—tickle—you.” 

“Ah!” Starsky jerked back from the offending fingers, and gave Hutch a shove into the sink. His butt slipped down into the sink, and Starsky reached around behind him quickly and turned on the cold water.

“Yeowch!” Hutch sprang up, wet on the rear.

#

“Blintz,” said Starsky, glancing over at Hutch as he drove. “Whose house do you want to toilet paper for Halloween?”

“Excuse me?”

“Because I’m thinking Blaine.” He grinned, and gripped the steering wheel with relish.

“Really? You want to toilet paper a cop’s house?”

“Oh yeah! I’ll do it when he’s not awake. He’ll never suspect a thing!”

“Davey…”

“Kenny…” said Starsky, mimicking the disapproving tone.

“I thought you liked Mrs. Blaine!”

“I do. I’ll clean it up for them—kindly neighbor and all that.” He reached across and gave Hutch a shove in the shoulder. “Don’t be a spoilsport! I can’t believe you don’t wanna help.”

“Why do you hate Blaine so much? He’s never been anything but decent to us.”

“I hate cops. Hate ‘em.” Starsky grimaced, shuddering again. 

“You hate him just because he’s a cop? Come on. Everybody’s got to have a day job.”

“Yeah, well, cops are dirty, or they don’t give a damn, or they’re twisted SOBs. I don’t care what you say. Never trust a cop. In my old neighborhood—”

“Starsky, this isn’t your old neighborhood. It’s stupid to run around carrying an outdated prejudice with you. Besides, you were a kid in your ‘old neighborhood.’ How could you know what ‘all cops’ were like? Maybe there were good ones, and you just never ran across them.”

“Yeah.” Starsky snorted. “Good cops.”

“Davey, grow up.” Hutch socked him in the arm. 

“You grow up! You think the world is—is full of roses an’ sunshine! What a crock.”

“I do not. But you don’t actually think Blaine is all those things you said, either, or you wouldn’t even consider pranking him. You’d be too afraid.” Hutch pointed a finger at Starsky’s face.

“Shut up. I would not. I’m no coward.”

“You shut up. If you thought he’d actually press charges if he catches you…”

“You’re making me sound like a little brat. If you don’t want to be in on it, fine—you’re out. Just don’t lay your guilt trips on me—and don’t think about telling on me!”

“Starsky…I’d never tell on you.”

“Yeah?” said Starsky. “What about when you told about my uncle?”

“That was different and you know it.”

Dave looked at him. “Okay, so it was different.” He turned back to face the road. “Sometimes you drive me nuts, Kenny. Do you know that? I just don’t understand you.”

“ _You_ don’t understand _me_?” said Hutch. “Huh! You’re no Mr. See-through yourself.”

“Sure I am, Hutch. I’m easy to understand. Give me my car, give me some food, a cute girl, and you—and I’m happy.”

Hutch socked him in the shoulder again, grinning. “Idiot.”

Chapter 9

Hutch and Starsky went to a Halloween party thrown by one of the school’s most popular cheerleaders. Hutch made himself an eye patch and went as a pirate. Starsky borrowed his suit and dressed as a snappy gangster, doing his Bogey impression and wearing a battered fedora he found somewhere. By nine o’clock, he had a couple of girls on his arm, and was laughing uproariously at his own jokes. 

Hutch sniffed the punch suspiciously, but it seemed fine. Dave was high on something else—hopefully just life.

Ken smiled politely at the girls, and danced with several (he made sure to dance with Claudia first), but he didn’t dance with anyone more than once. He still wasn’t the most confident of dancers, although Starsky had taught him enough that he no longer felt like he wasn’t safe to dance in public. He didn’t really want to dance at all, but it seemed rude not to.

After a time, he slipped out the back, moved past the patio where couples were kissing or holding hands, and walked down into the darkness of the back yard garden. He stood with his hands hooked in his pockets, and shakily breathed the cold night air, watching his breath form clouds. Coming here had been a mistake. He felt so empty inside. It seemed wrong to be dancing, when Jenny was somewhere—he didn’t even know where—possibly miserable, probably unhappy or uncomfortable or…or just lonely.

_I hope she’s not lonely._ He looked at the sky, and the two or three visible stars. _Don’t be lonely, Jenny._

Somehow, seeing Starsky having so much fun made Hutch feel even lonelier. He didn’t feel like he could throw himself into the festivities in the same way Dave could, and, seeing him enjoy himself so much with so many people, he couldn’t help thinking Dave wouldn’t need him much anymore. He’d move on with his life, making millions of friends, being the popular life of the party…

“Kenny?” Soft footsteps and the sound of Starsky’s breathing drew up behind him. His hand came to rest in the middle of Hutch’s back. “What’s the matter? Saw you just take off. Hm? What’s wrong?” He leaned closer, to look around at Hutch’s face. Hutch smelled punch and cookies on his breath.

“I’m…lonely,” said Hutch, not sure how much to get into it about Jenny, and Starsky.

“What, at a party?”

“Sometimes they’re the loneliest places.”

“Well, come on back in. I’ll hook you up with a cute girl, an’—”

“No Davey. I think I’m just going to walk home. You have fun. I don’t want to stay here.” He started off.

“Hutch. Hutchy. Ken!” Starsky caught up with him, and slid his arms around Hutch’s middle, catching and jostling him and pulling him to a halt.

“What?” said Ken, belligerently, even though at the same time he felt relieved by Starsky’s concern.

“Don’t walk home, not on Halloween after dark. There’s creeps out. Come on, I’ll drive ya. Come on, Blintz.” He swatted his side, and pulled him towards the parking lot.

“Starsky, you’re superstitious.”

“No I’m not. Real creeps, Ken—the human kind. Sometimes they’re worse. Don’t want you bein’ somebody’s trick.” He ruffled Ken’s hair. “Won’t take long to drive you home.”

They stopped outside the Hutchinson’s house. “You okay, Kenny? You need me to stay?”

“No. I’m—” _Well, I’m just going to be a misery guts no matter what, Davey. I don’t want to wreck your evening._ “Are you still going to do that thing later?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t tell ya and then ya won’t be a ‘ccomplice.”

“I think that’s answer enough.” He sighed inwardly, but he didn’t feel like getting into an argument, and Starsky had already made it pretty plain he wasn’t going to be talked out of pranking the Blaines easily. “All right, I’ll see you later.”

He didn’t; he was asleep by the time Starsky got home, and Starsky didn’t wake him up.

#

“I see ya got toilet papered last night.” Starsky hooked his fingers through his belt loops and squinted, looking like he was trying to hold back a smile. “Got up early to take care of it too, huh?” He looked up at Mr. Blaine, who was standing on a ladder leaned against the house. “Need some help?” He grinned.

Hutch stood back, watching the interaction worriedly.

Blaine looked down at the curly headed mischief maker. Then he climbed down. “I think that would be…wise,” said Blaine.

Hutch moved forward quickly to hold the ladder for Davey, willing him to keep his mouth shut, keep his cocky pride to himself. Mr. Blaine would have to be an idiot not to guess, if Dave kept acting like this.

“Somebody did a real good job, didn’t they?” said Dave with relish. “Real thorough.”

“They had better do as good a job cleaning it up,” said Blaine, including Hutch in his stern glaze.

Hutch looked down, his face flaming. _He can’t think I was involved in this!_

Starsky grinned his lopsided grin. “Sure I don’t know what ya mean, copper.” He skinned up the ladder, fleet-footed and limber. “This is just a favor, bein’ as you’re a neighbor and all.”

Blaine watched him for a moment, then shook his head and walked away. “I didn’t think you’d do something like this, Ken,” he said on his way past.

“But I didn’t.”

Blaine paused. “Oh, only him, then?”

“Don’t…don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ken miserably. He was giving it away, wasn’t he? And after he’d promised Starsky he wouldn’t tell...

“All right.” Blaine clapped him on the shoulder. “I guess you can’t control his every move.” He wandered back to the house.

“Idiot,” hissed Hutch as soon as he was gone. “Why’d you have to act so cocky? Now he knows it was you!”

Starsky looked down at him, his eyes glinting and fierce and somehow mysterious in the cold morning light. “Think I don’t want him to?” he asked quietly. 

He tried to explain it to Hutch, later, when they were alone walking in the tree line beyond the backyard. “He knows and I know, and he knows he can’t prove anything. And he knows I can do it again, too, or somethin’ else. Just to keep him in line.”

“Starsky, you’re an idiot. If he ever gets vandalized again, who do you think he’s going to look at? And if you’re really innocent next time, you’ll have no way to prove it.” He punched him in the shoulder, hard. “Think, next time!”

Starsky gave him a push back, and rubbed his arm where Hutch had punched it. “What’s it to you? I didn’t ask you to help. I’ll handle this myself.”

“Yeah, and the next time you’re in trouble with the law…” He raised his voice, mockingly, “’Help me, Kenny! Help! I’m going to be a jailbird!’”

“Oh, man, I do not sound like that at all. You’ve got to work on your mimicry skills, man. Practice your voices! You suck.”

“Somebody sucks…” muttered Hutch.

“Yeah…somebody.”

“Ought to beat some sense into you,” growled Hutch.

“Yeah, well, it’s been tried. It hasn’t worked yet.” Dave crossed his arms, leaning back against a tree. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s yours? Flirting with disaster. Pranking cops…” He shook his head, and spit some phlegm on the ground. “I don’t know why I try telling you anything.”

“I listen, sometimes. That’s not fair an’ you know it.” He frowned at Ken. “What are you so mad about?”

“One minute you’re all…Kenny, hug me. And the next you’re doing something stupid and dangerous and I c-can’t stop you.” Hutch’s breath hitched. “Just…knock it off, would you?”

Dave grinned at him, a little lopsidedly, a little hurt, but trying not to take offense. “Which?”

“Quit getting in trouble! You think I’m always gonna be here to look after you?”

“Well, you are.” Starsky stopped smiling and his eyes looked unhappy, watchful.

“No! No, I’m not!” Hutch got up and paced around, running fingers back through his hair, breathing shakily, too hard. “It’s going to end, okay? You’re…or I’m…we’ll graduate from high school. And you’ll have to work, or something, and I’ll have to go off to college or something. You can’t live with the Hutchinsons forever, anyway! What kind of an idiot…” He swallowed. “What kind of an idiot thinks I can really take care of him forever?” he finished, more quietly, and flopped onto the ground, put his face in his hands.

“I take care of you too,” said Dave. “I’m not just your pet, remember? What happened to that? And you said it would be forever. You promise, Hutch! We both did.”

Hutch looked up from his palms. “Yeah, we ‘promised.’ Friends forever—even best friends. Well, best friends don’t usually live with each other. In fact, sometimes they don’t see each other for days, weeks—even years. Suppose we go on being friends forever? Great! But we might be in different professions, different cities, or even different countries. All I’m trying to say is, I can’t be looking after you forever. You’ve…got to use your own good judgment. And pranking cops is…just stupid, Starsk! You’ve got to see that, or I’m sorry, there’s no hope for you.”

Starsky got up and paced. “Why do you got to talk like that, Hutch?” His accent grew thicker. “You’re…bein’ an ass. You’re yellin’ at me because of Blaine? Well, he didn’t even yell at me, and it was his yard. I don’t see what the hell it’s got to do with you.”

Hutch got up. “Oh, really? So I suppose you were out there all by yourself cleaning up, huh? You’ve got to learn, Davey—what affects you affects me. At least for now. At least until one of us moves a hundred miles away and starts a new life.”

They frowned at each other.

“You know what?” said Hutch. “Forget it. You’ve got that stubborn look on your face. I can’t tell you anything. I couldn’t tell you the sky’s blue right now.” Hutch turned and walked away, down the hill.

“Isn’t, either!” yelled Dave after him. “It’s off-white!” Then Hutch heard him say, more quietly, “Damn it,” and a sound like someone kicking a tree.

Hutch went out home by himself, and practiced throwing the ball into the laundry basket in the willow tree, for a long time. He heard the door slam when Dave went inside, but ignored it.

He went over and over what had happened…what he’d said. The way Davey had looked. _I was right. But the way I said some things to him… I’m scared I’m going to lose him soon, so I’m pushing him away ahead of time. How smart is that? Damn it!_

He whirled and threw the ball extra hard.

“You kinda suck at that,” said Starsky. Hutch looked up quickly to see him with his arms propped on the window sill, smoking out of Hutch’s window.

“You’re going to make my room smell. Quit that.”

Starsky stuck his tongue out, then carefully took another drag on the cigarette. He flicked it down to land on the grass. Hutch stomped it out for him. 

“What the hell, Hutch,” said Starsky. He stared down at him, and then started climbing down the tree. He stopped just above the basket. He waited. Hutch, his mouth tight, refusing to look at Starsky, missed the basket. Starsky caught the ball and held it up. “I said, what the hell?”

“What the hell,” said Hutch, sitting down with his back against the tree, fighting tears, not even sure why. “I agree.”

“Ken…?” Starsky sounded, for the first time, uncertain. He scrambled down the tree awkwardly, set the ball on the ground, and sat down next to Hutch. “Look, have you…? What’s wrong, Hutch?”

“Everything. Nothing.” Hutch wiped at his eyes and sniffed.

Starsky’s hand hovered out cautiously to rest on Hutch’s knee—then he withdrew it. “Do you…wanna break the partnership?”

“No!”

“Oh.” He hesitated, looking down at the ground. “You kind of sounded like you did, earlier.” He glanced up at Hutch, and Hutch saw the confusion there. _Do you want rid of me?_ Starsky’s eyes seemed to say.

Hutch gripped his knee in return, and gave it a shake. “I still love you, Starsky. I just…I don’t know. I feel like it’s going to fall apart, or we’re going to start relying on each other too much and then be devastated when our lives take separate paths.”

“Well, maybe they won’t?” Dave looked at him, head tilted, asking with his eyes, almost pleading.

“Starsky, I can’t—make you any promises I can’t keep.”

“But you promised already.”

“Yes. It’s you and me. Us versus the world. But…Davey…people grow up. They move on. You’ll—” He swallowed. “You’re chasing girls. I’m studying for college. Soon we won’t have time for each other at all, and I—I just don’t want it to end badly. I want us to both understand, okay, we’re friends, but sometimes…sometimes friendships get more distant, you know, when two people grow up. I mean, we can’t live together forever. You and me…let’s just not wreck it by expecting too much.”

Starsky’s lips thinned as his mouth tightened. He pulled them into his mouth, and Hutch saw them whiten as he worried them, pressing them between his teeth. 

“I can’t, Hutch,” he said at last. “I can’t just pull back, ‘cuz it might change. I know it will. You think that I think…I can keep a nice guy like you all to myself, forever? You’re smart, Ken. I know that. I love ya for it, but I know we…might not take the same path.”

He looked down, and swallowed, and spoke thickly. “Doesn’t mean…I’m not too attached to ya already.”

“Aw, Davey.” Hutch reached around his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. He rubbed Dave’s back with one hand.

Starsky swallowed, hard, and he drew back from the hug, still had more to say. He kept his eyes down as he said it. 

“I guess I am too…too relying on ya,” said Starsky heavily. “But I can’t…well, I don’t wanna change that. I know I’m lettin’ more people in lately, and chasing girls, too, but…but…it’s all because of you, Blintz. I don’t know how to say it. You…helped me, inside, like I can…like it’s safe to care about stuff, and smile at people, an’…an’ just be a regular person, not be by myself, walled up all the time. 

“If you decide you don’t want me anymore…I don’t think…I just…” He drew back and brought a hand up and wiped at his nose quickly. “I don’t have nobody else, Blintz.” He kept his head down, as if ashamed to look up.

“Okay, Starsky. Okay.” Hutch squeezed his knee, and gave it a shake. “I don’t know what to say here. I’m not some hero that can save you. I…I’m just a guy, and sometimes I’m so lonely and sad and small inside—really just barely holding on. I can’t save you, Dave. I’m sorry. I love you—you know that…but…” He swallowed, hard. 

“This is hard, Davey. It’s hard to talk about this, like this, with you. But…I know growing up happens. And I’m either going to marry Jenny, or go to college, or both—I’ve given it a lot of thought—I’ve thought and thought about it. And in none of my thoughts, do I know what to do with you.” He grimaced. “Sorry, Starsk. That didn’t come out how I meant.”

“No, I understand. It’s fine.”

Ken swallowed. “I just want to say…I don’t know, Davey. I love you, and…I’ll be here for you as long as I can. But nothing lasts forever.”

“I know that.” Starsky’s voice was muffled and sounded choked. 

Hutch looked at him, quickly. “Davey. Don’t do this—please. I’m not leaving now. And maybe—maybe we’re wrong, nothing will ever…separate us.”

He kept hold of Starsky’s knee, rubbing his thumb over it repetitively, until the knee felt warm under his hand, and his fingers were starting to freeze in the cold air, and his back felt chilled against the tree, and Starsky stopped gulping and swallowing and leaned against Hutch’s shoulder, and took a deep, shaky, shivery breath.

“Ready to go in?”

“Mm-hm.”

They got up, holding onto each other.

#

That night, Dave lay close but not touching, staring at Hutch’s face, not moving his eyes from it. 

“Davey, what?” said Hutch finally, growing uncomfortable under the wistful gaze.

“I’m mesmerizing ya, Kenny.”

“I think you mean ‘memorizing.’”

“Yeah. That.”

“Davey…”

“Let’s not talk about it anymore, Hutch.” Starsky edged closer and drew his arms around Hutch, so he could lean his forehead against Hutch’s. “Just not talk about it,” he repeated.

“Okay.” Ken gave in, bringing a hand up to pat Starsky’s head, reassure him. 

“Hutch, I’ll love you forever, and you’ll love me forever, and that’s all there is to it. Right?”

“Right,” Ken affirmed.

“Kenny…”

“Davey?”

“Could you just say it?” He gnawed on his lip. “I need to hear ya say it. You just…say it out loud?”

For a moment, Hutch was confused. “What?”

“‘Love ya.’”

“Oh. Sure thing. I love you, Davey. I love you.”

Starsky was silent a moment. “Say it again. It’s not goin’ down inside.”

“I love you,” said Ken, quietly, in Dave’s ear. And then he gave him a pat. “Sit up, Davey.”

“No. I gotta hold onto you.” His grip tightened, and he sounded tearful again.

“It’s okay. You will. I’m going to hold you.” Hutch gave him a gentle swat. “Sit up.”

By this time, Starsky was gnawing his lip. Hutch sat up and drew Starsky onto his lap, until he was actually sitting on him. “Now lean your head down on me. Yeah.” He stroked the head that came to rest on his shoulder. “I’ve got you, Davey. I’ve got your guts, remember?” He tweaked his side a little, and then patted it. “I’m going to hold onto your guts, Dave. They’re safe with me.”

“Promise?” Starsky’s voice was muffled.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Okay, Ken. But…but don’t hope to die, ‘kay? I…know ya think about it sometimes…” His voice trailed off.

Ken let out his breath very carefully and slowly. How did Starsky…? “Okay, Davey. I won’t.”

Chapter ten

“I hate Christmas,” said Ken, lying chest down on his bed, reading a book and waving his feet in the air, frowning at the sound of the radio beginning to play a Christmas carol.

Starsky, who had been starting to sing along to the music, looked at him quickly, and blinked. “What?! Why would you hate Christmas! Who hates _Christmas?_ ”

Ken shrugged. “Just do.” He gnawed his lip, concentrating on the text. A detective novel; his favorite. 

“Kenny.” Starsky came and sat down on the edge of the bed. “There must be something wrong with you. Nobody hates Christmas.” He tilted his head and looked at Hutch with concern. “Why?”

Hutch sighed and flipped his book over to hold his spot. “Look, it’s…I just do, okay? It’s always a big deal to my parents, but… not in a good way. The gifts have to be perfect, the tree has to be perfect, the clothes and manners and…just everything…has to be perfect. And we pretend to be this loving family, but we’re not. It’s all pretend. I’d rather skip Christmas. And this year, I’m going to. My aunt and uncle probably don’t do much for it, anyway.” He turned his book over again.

“Ken.” Dave put a hand on his back, and pushed him a little. “You can’t. You can’t skip Christmas! Kenny…” He stretched out on the bed next to him. “It won’t be like that here, with you an’ me and your aunt and uncle. We’ll keep it simple. It’ll just…be like…like happy together stuff. Okay?”

Hutch held back a smile. ‘Happy together stuff?’ Dave sounded about five years old. “You really love Christmas, huh, buddy?” He rolled sideways and smiled at Dave, facing him.

Starsky nodded, and touched Hutch’s chin, the nick where he’d cut himself this morning, trying to shave. “I want to buy you something.”

“Dave…” Hutch sighed. “That’s how it starts. Making it about money and gifts. Making Christmas ‘good enough.’” He watched Starsky’s face grow longer. “Look, I’ll tell you what. You’re saving up for your car. I’m saving up for college and—or… you know, getting married. Whatever happens. So, let’s make a deal. If you want to get presents, that’s fine. But let’s put a cap on it—something like a dollar.”

“A dollar?!”

“A dollar,” said Hutch firmly. “It’s the thought that counts.” He patted Starsky’s stomach and turned back to his book, kicking his feet into the air again. “Oh, and could you turn off that radio? I can’t stand Christmas songs.”

Davey’s face got long again, but this time, Hutch ignored it. Starsky got up, padded over to the radio, and turned it off.

“Whatcha reading?”

Hutch gritted his teeth, and put it down again. “A book.”

“Read me some?” Dave lay down next to him, so close they were pressed together, and peered at the text.

“Davey, I read to you all the time for school.”

“Yeah, but not for fun.”

“Here. You try.” Hutch pushed the book to him. “You read to me for once. I’m right…here.” He found and touched the paragraph, and then rolled over on his back and put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes. “I’m waiting.”

“Hutch. I—can’t read _out loud._ ” He sounded shocked by the thought.

“Sure you can, Davey. You’re getting better. Besides, it’s just me here. It’s just like with dancing. You can do it.”

“Ken…”

“Come on. I’m waiting. I want to find out what happens in the gunfight.”

“There’s…a gunfight?” said Starsky.

Hutch grinned. He’d known that would work! “Just have to read it and find out, buddy.”

#

He bought Starsky a car air freshener, a book of strange facts and amazing coincidences (used—twenty-five cents), and a couple of hair clips as a joke (Starsky’s hair was getting long and curly again.) He also made several paper snowflakes when he was bored, and put them in, and a doodled-on paper airplane with the image of Starsky’s head on one side of the cockpit, his on the other.

He figured he’d get a candy bar or two in return. 

They both lay awake Christmas Eve night, wound up even though they were too old to think Christmas was the best day ever, or that Santa was coming. “What was your Christmas like, last year?”

“You first.” Dave rubbed his face against Hutch’s pajama top, which meant he was feeling particularly affectionate.

Ken patted his head. “Um, let’s see. We had a bunch of parties to attend before Christmas, but the actual day itself was supposed to be ‘family time.’ That didn’t last long. We had a huge meal, which we barely touched, because my parents had a big fight.”

“Anything good happen?” said Dave.

“Um…my parents got me a dune buggy.”

“A dune buggy! Wow!”

“I called my friend, Jack Mitchell, and we went out to test it. He’d gotten one too—we both asked for them. It was cold out, and I fell and hurt my elbow. I came home, took some aspirin, and crawled into bed alone. I missed my dog. My dad had him put down before Thanksgiving. His hip was starting to hurt, and Dad said…” He swallowed. “…said it was for the best.”

Starsky was silent a moment. “Guess I am your pet.”

“At least you don’t lick my face or wake me up in the morning when you need to pee.” He laughed, a little shakily, and returned the hug Davey was giving him. “Well? What about you, Davey.”

“Um…well…? My aunt died year before last, so the last couple Christmases been hard. Lessee, last year, I got up an’ cooked breakfast—toast an’ eggs—and then I went out and played catch by myself in the backyard, and my uncle went out to have a coupla drinks, and when he got home, he yelled at me for getting muddy—cuz I did, Hutch. I got real muddy, throwing the football in the air an’ tryin’ to catch it before it hit the ground. 

He swallowed—Ken saw his Adam’s apple bob. “I had peanut butter an’ jelly for lunch, and cleaned up the dishes so my uncle wouldn’t…you know. I smoked some cigarettes an’ took a walk so I’d be out of the house, and then I went down to the church and got the free candy canes and cookies they gave for anybody who came to the candlelight service. 

“I’m not s’pposed to go, cuz I’m Jewish, but I didn’t tell anyone. Sure didn’t tell my uncle! I held the candle an’ everything. It was nice—warm. I liked the songs, and the cookies were pretty good. Not as good as your aunt’s, but good. I walked home, and it was a clear night, I could see the stars. And when I got back, my uncle was in bed asleep, so he didn’t hit me, and I took a shower and went to bed, and it was pretty good.” He paused, and then spoke again, sounding thoughtful. “But I think I missed you, even then.”

“Dave…you can’t miss somebody you’ve never met.” Hutch hated to shoot down the sweet, innocent things Starsky came up with sometimes, but this one seemed too flagrantly incorrect to ignore. “You didn’t even know I existed.”

“No, but I was lonely. Weren’t you?”

“It’ll be better this year,” said Hutch, hugging him closer. And he closed his eyes and hoped he was telling the truth.

#

On Christmas morning, he unwrapped Dave’s gift—a clumsily-wrapped cardboard box—and stared down…at a box of junk.

Hutch blinked. There was a slip of plastic, a used pen (complete with teeth marks), a pack of gum, and several rocks.

“Dave?” He stared down at the box of junk in dismay, and then looked up at Starsky. Bill and Hazel watched in awkward silence, as well. “This some kind of joke?”

“No,” said Starsky. “See?” He grinned nervously, and plucked up the slip of plastic. “It’s for…for puttin’ in any nice pictures you might wanna protect.” He couldn’t be more specific, in front of the relatives. “And this…” He picked up the pen. “It’s the best-writin’ pen in the world—well, the best one I’ve found, anyway. I traded three regular pencils for it and a candy bar. It’s got the smoothest ink, Hutch…you’ll see. This is the last pack of Beeman’s gum Leon’s ever gonna sell at the store. He’s not carryin’ it anymore. And these are _perfect_ skimming stones for when the weather’s nice, Hutch. You don’t find stones like these every day, so hang onto ‘em until the weather’s just right, and then you’ll see how far they’ll fly!” 

He reached in, and picked up two things Hutch had missed. He brandished a guitar pick. “And this is in case you decide to play the guitar again. And this…is pool chalk. I wanna teach you to play pool.” He grinned and winked. “You’ll probably stink, but it can’t hurt to try.”

“Oh.” Hutch felt bad for misjudging him. “That’s nice, Starsk. Thanks.” He stepped towards him and pulled him into a hug, then scrubbed Starsky’s curly hair with his knuckles.

Starsky grinned and ducked his head.

He liked his presents, too, and followed Hutch around, reading him facts from the book. 

#

Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson gave the boys a present, too—a hoop on the garage, and a basketball that actually bounced. Ken and Dave played with it all afternoon, bounding around, wrestling over the ball, and missing most of their shots. They were used to the old laundry basket. It didn’t matter; they had fun, and they’d eventually adjust to this proper basket height.

That evening, it began to snow. Davey was like a little kid, running outside (without his coat, a hat, or boots), dancing around and trying to catch flakes on his tongue. He wanted to have a snowball fight with Hutch, but he couldn’t get enough together to make even one snowball—so instead he just tackled Ken and rubbed his head on the damp grass, laughing maniacally.

“Boys, we’re going to the candlelight service,” said Aunt Hazel after they were back inside and dry. She pulled on her gloves. “Are you coming, Kenny? It’s all right for you to stay home, Davey.”

“I can come.” Dave shot up from his seat on the floor. He’d been trying to build a house of cards. Now, they all fell down. “Kenny’s the one who should stay home. He gets all sour-faced when a Christmas song comes on the radio.”

Hutch felt he should protest, however right Dave probably was. “I do not,” he said halfheartedly. He rose as well from the couch, and suppressed a sigh. Great. He’d have to get dressed up…

Aunt Hazel and Uncle Bill exchanged looks. “Your mother…did mention something about us not indoctrinating you, Dave,” she said at last.

“So? You’re not…endocrine…doing that. I like Christmas music. Doesn’t bother me.” He wound a scarf around his neck and slipped into his coat. “Hurry up, Ken.”

“And fire. He likes fire. Do I need to wear my suit?”

“Slap your coat on and let’s go!” said Dave. “Nobody’s gonna care what you look like in the dark, Blintz!”

Aunt Hazel nodded. “You’ll be fine.”

Ken breathed a sigh of relief. No suit! It was uncomfortable at the best of times, and the last time he’d tried it on, the sleeves and pant legs had been too short.

A short time later, he stood awkwardly in the packed church between his uncle and Dave. There was barely room; the church was crowded. And of course Dave didn’t believe in personal space at the least crowded of times; as it was, to make room for the other people in the pew, he stood practically on top of Ken, his shoulder and elbow poking Ken every time he shifted his hymnal. 

Dave was singing, too. He seemed to know a lot of the words. _I guess from listening to Christmas songs on the radio…_

When they all held lit candles in the dark, near the end of the service, and the pastor talked about passing the light and remembering the babe in the manger and Who He grew up to be, Ken risked another glance at Dave. His face seemed to glow, lit up with the candlelight, and bright interest. As Ken watched, he looked up at the ceiling and around at the crowd, his expression peaceful and happy. Then he turned to Ken and gave him a sweet smile. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.

Ken nodded, and smiled back. “You too.”

They walked home in the darkness, amongst the still-falling flakes. “See? A couple stars, Hutch.” Starsky pointed them out, his steps hurrying to catch up to Ken. “Isn’t it perfect?” 

“Yeah, I guess it’s just about—”

“Just about!” Starsky tackled Hutch from behind, wrapping his arms around him in a tight, breathe-squeezing hug, almost knocking him down. 

“Dave!” Hutch stumbled, and tried to push him off. Dave let him go and stole his hat, and ran ahead, making Ken chase him all the way home.

Back at home, even though it was dark, Dave kept padding to the window in his socks, pushing aside the curtains and peering out, gauging the depths of the snow. “We gotta make snow angels and have a snowball fight, Hutch,” he said, when Hutch asked why he kept looking out.

“Well, it’s after dark. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Best Christmas I’ve had in a long time, Ken,” he said later, pulling the covers up over their pajamas.

“Me too,” admitted Hutch. He moved his feet so they wouldn’t get Starsky cold. “I’m glad you’re here.”

In the morning, there was just enough snow to cover the grass, and, sure enough, Dave scooped up snow and packed it into a ball, chortling, then flung it into Hutch’s face. They waged a war over three neighborhood yards, snow slinging, stinging into faces, eyes, chests, making Starsky cough and hang his head and shake snow out of his shirt, and Hutch shiver uncontrollably as it ran down his back. They held their hands under their armpits to warm up their frozen fingers, and grinned at each other with shark smiles, and asked, “Are you ready to go in yet?” “No, are you?” And the battle waged on.

Aunt Hazel came to the door, calling repeatedly, wiping her hands on her apron. “Boys! Boys, get in the house! You want to catch your death of cold?”

The two reluctantly trooped towards the door. 

“Wait. Ken.” Dave plucked his elbow towards a rare, clean patch of snow, and pointed. “Let’s make snow angels.”

Lying down, shivering in the cold, their breath puffing little clouds above them, they waved their limbs on the ground, and made angels. Then they went inside, changed their sodden clothes, and drank hot cocoa wrapped in blankets, pretending not to shiver.

#

“Happy New Year, boys.” Uncle Bill raised his glass. They were letting the boys have a little wine to celebrate midnight. The Blaines had come over as well, and one other set of childless neighbors the Hutchinsons knew. They all milled around the kitchen, snacking, drinking, chatting, and now, celebrating after the countdown. Starsky and Hutch were the youngest people there.

“Cheers.” Starsky held up his glass. He was grinning, and his face was flushed. He’d already had a glass. He turned to Dave. “Happy 1960, Kenny!”

“You too, Davey.” Hutch smiled at him. They clinked their glasses together. “I hope it’s your best year yet.”

Starsky grinned at him, looking a little wet-eyed. “Aw, thanks, Kenny-Ken-Ken.” He grinned sappily, reached up to scrub and disarray Hutch’s hair, and then took another slurp of wine.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” said Hutch, trying to pat his hair back down.

“No, Hu’sh. Tastes good. Like…forgetting.”

_Oh, man! I don’t want him getting a taste for this stuff!_ “Davey.” Hutch put down his glass. “You’ve definitely had enough. Come on. Give me that. Time for bed.”

“No, no. Get to stay up late tonight,” said Starsky, yawning. 

Hutch tried to pry the wineglass from him, but Dave took a quick gulp, finishing his glass with a grin. 

“Come on, buddy.” Hutch caught him around the waist, and herded him from the kitchen.

“No. Don’t wanna go.” Starsky caught hold of the doorway with both hands and held on. “Stay.”

“Starsky…!” Hutch pushed, but Starsky held firm.

“Ken, let him go,” said Blaine quietly. “He’ll get tired soon and go to bed on his own. There’s no point chasing him off. He can’t get into any trouble. We won’t let him have any more wine.”

Hutch released the frowning Starsky. “Okay.”

Starsky nodded, and straightened his shoulders and his shirt, holding his head high. He nodded grandly to Blaine. “Thanks, copper.” Then he headed past Hutch towards the kitchen table, grinning. “Zat salmon?”

But Hutch was the one who had to sit up that night with Starsky, when he felt sick on the drinks and the fish.

#

“Oh I wonder wonder…boomboomba-doombadoom…WHO WROTE THE BOOK OF LOVE!” Starsky sang along to the radio at full volume—both from him and the radio. “Tell me tell me baby…I love you yes I do…it tells me in this book of love that you’re the one that’s true…” He shook his head and snapped his fingers and danced around the room with his fancy footwork, making the floor shake.

Hutch looked up from his book, glaring a little, and held his hands up to cover his ears. _Sometimes I wish he would use his own room…_

He propped himself on his elbows and frowned at Dave. _He sings too loud. And he has no self-consciousness when he sings and dances. Which is kind of amazing, considering the fact that he can be quite self-conscious other times…_

“WHO WROTE THE BOOK OF LOOOOOVE?” Dave and the radio chorused.

Hutch’s chest pricked him again, painfully, at another mention of ‘love’ on the radio. So cheerful they were, but love wasn’t like that. Love hurt. Sometimes, everything seemed to make him think of Jenny, and then everything hurt.

Except Davey. 

Smiling, panting after he finished his song, Starsky bowed from the waist, grinning, and then came over and tried to tug the book from Hutch’s hands. “Come on—dance! Next song’s ‘Sea Cruise!’ It’s great! You can’t mess that up. Dance, Kenny…dance!”

Laughing, he pulled Ken (who made a face), into the middle of the room. “Kick up those heels, schlemiel!”

“Oh, that’s really going to help me,” said Ken, sticking his tongue out. 

Dave laughed. “Watch it! Your face might freeze like that!”

Chapter eleven

“Ken. Kenny.” Dave poked him in the chest again.

“What!” Hutch flung down his book and sighed loudly, looking up to glare at Starsky. He’d been lying on the couch reading, and Starsky just would not leave him alone. “You’ve been poking at me for the last five minutes. What do you _want_?!”

“Want to talk.” Starsky, who had been sitting on the floor looking up at Ken, now plopped himself on the edge of the couch and leaned down and smiled at him. “F’r instance, what’s your middle name? You never told me.” 

Hutch sighed. “I’m gonna make you read to me again, if you don’t quit.”

“Ooh, scary Hutch!” He nudged him, grinning. “Come on, what’s your middle name?”

Hutch grimaced, and lifted his book again, trying to obscure Starsky’s grin. “It’s…Jonathan. Kenneth Jonathan Hutchinson.” He made a face. 

“Jonathan…ho! I’ll call you ‘Johnny!” He gripped Hutch around his middle and gave him a shake. “Johnny Johnny John boy.”

Hutch flopped his book down and sighed voluminously. “It’s a singularly inappropriate moniker! It conjures up images of a simple, uncomplicated farm boy—utterly wrong for me!” 

“Man, you’re high-fallutin’ when you’re pissed.” Starsky grinned down at him. “Hutch.” His eyes sparkled. “I think you’re simple.”

Hutch jumped up with a growl. Starsky, laughing, took off across the room, and Hutch jumped up and chased him, his book left forgotten on the couch.

#

Dave crept close to him that night.Hutch reached a hand up to stroke over Dave’s head. Starsky got so insecure sometimes, it was like he wasn’t even the same person. Sometimes Ken wanted to take his face in his hands and say, “Knock it off! You’re fine! I’m not going to stop loving you and you’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong!”

He’d tried it once; it hadn’t helped. It had just made Dave look at him with troubled eyes, brush the comment off, and almost pleadingly change the subject to something—anything—else. But later that day, he’d crept halfway onto Ken’s lap while he was reading, and that night he’d curled as close as he dared. That time, Ken hadn’t tried any words on him. He’d just held him until it was okay again. He realized, later: he’d raised his voice. He’d sounded mad. 

“Kenny.” Dave was playing with his hair—again!—when Hutch woke up the next morning. “I love you.”

Ken pushed his hand away, and answered the test. “Love you too, bozo. Get dressed.”

“I am dressed. I got up early, see?” He lifted back the covers, revealing a full outfit of jeans and one of Hutch’s flannel shirts. “I picked your outfit out too, so you’d be all ready to go.” He looked at Ken.

“What? What is it?” Hutch sat up and yawned, stretching. 

“Nothing.” Dave looked away, embarrassment heating his face.

“What? Come on.” He nudged Dave. “You don’t have to look like that around _me_.”

“Well, I wondered…just…could I sit…sit on your lap for a minute?”

“Yeah, Davey. Sit up.” He pushed the covers back and slapped his thighs. 

Dave crawled gratefully onto him, all knees and elbows and awkward shoulders. Hutch suppressed a sigh as he got jostled in the ribcage, and then wrapped his arms around his needy friend. He closed his eyes, and let himself drift towards sleep again. He could tell—this was going to be one of the long hugs.

After school, Dave lay so close it almost made breathing hard while Ken lounged on the bed, reading their homework aloud. Starsky fingered Hutch’s hair, watched him, almost vibrating neediness into the air. Ken kept reading, until the vibrations became too much to bear—and his hair began to hurt from the constant touching and tugging and rubbing.

“What?” he said, putting his finger on the book, and turning to scowl at Dave.

“Nothin’.”

“Buddy…”

“Kenny boy.” Starsky’s painful expression lightened slightly, a smile twisting up one corner of his mouth.

Ken found himself returning the smile. “Davella.”

“Only my mom calls me that—Golden Boy.”

“Davy Jones,” said Hutch promptly. Name calling—Dave loved this. It would cheer him up, whatever was wrong.

“Kensington. Kensington Manner Hutch-in-son.” 

Hutch held a hand over his heart, as though he’d been hit. “Ooh. Good one—greedy Gordo.”

“Schlemiel Blintz.”

“Mr. Personality,” said Hutch, making a face.

“Johnny boy. Hairless Wonder.” He gave Ken a shove, his grin widening.

“Okay, you asked for it— _Manfred_!” He gave Dave a harder shove back.

Starsky yelped, falling over onto his back. “I told you never to _call_ me that!” Dave didn’t like his middle name, either.

But Ken was already tickling his underarms, and soon he couldn’t talk at all.

#

The door slammed. “Hey, Ken!” 

“Hm?” Ken read a few more sentences, then put his finger on his spot, and looked up. “Thought you were going to play mud football with the guys down the street, Starsk?”

Starsky scowled at him. “I’ve been and done that, and come back. Notice anything?” he said sarcastically. He spread his arms. He wore a different outfit, and his curls were wet from showering.

“Oh. Guess I didn’t notice.” Hutch turned back to his book.

“Yeah. Guess you didn’t.” Starsky sat down on the edge of the bed. “Still say you would have enjoyed a nice game of mud football—wherever you are.” He waved a hand in front of Ken’s face. 

Ken pushed it aside. “Knock it off, Davey. I’m reading.”

#

“Does your neediness know no bounds?” asked Hutch quietly one evening when Starsky lay with his head on Hutch’s lap, holding onto his thigh. 

He didn’t think he’d said it aloud, until Dave stiffened.

Dave sat up slowly. “Want me to go?”

“No. I didn’t mean anything by that, Davey. Dave.” He touched the side of Starsky’s stiffening face, and gave him a little smile. “Come on. I didn’t.”

Dave blinked a couple of times, and nodded. But he still got up and began ranging around the room. At last, he settled on the closet—pulled its door open, and picked up Ken’s guitar. 

Ken tilted one eye up from his book. “What are you doing with that?”

“I’m gonna teach myself to play. Since you’re not using it.”

“Dave…”

“Where’s that pick I bought you? Hm?” He looked up, his face carefully devoid of any unhappy or unpleasant expression.

“Davey, they’re…they’re in the drawer.”

“Thank you.” Dave gave a nod. He spent the next several minutes rooting around in Hutch’s drawer, until Hutch became absorbed in his book again, and completely forgot Dave was in the room.

“Aw, Hutch!” said Dave, his voice emotional, pleased, and surprised. 

“What?” Hutch jumped a little and looked around wildly, laying his hand flat over his book to hold it down at the right place.

Dave gave him a rather soppy smile from his seat at the desk. He was holding up something, but first of all, Ken saw the mess he’d made. All of Hutch’s junk lay piled on top of the desk, along with what must be a lot of someone else’s, too. He couldn’t have that much, could he?

“You saved my hair!” Dave came and plopped down on the bed beside him, holding a few strands of snipped curls that had lost their sheen.

“Oh. That. It was an impulse,” said Hutch. Starsky didn’t have to get all sentimental about it, did he? “Didn’t like to see them go.”

“Yeah, but they’ve grown back and you didn’t trash it. You kept my hair.”

_Of course I didn’t trash it. I never clean that drawer. And…well…I wouldn’t have trashed it anyway._

“It’s creepy if you think about it. Dead hair _._ ” Hutch lay back, and stretched his arms over his head. He’d needed a breather from reading, anyway. He’d started that book this morning, and was almost through it, despite Starsky’s interruptions. Sunday was a good reading day—except for Dave’s caged-tiger act, or, worse, his needy routine.

“Kenny, you do love me.”

“What, haven’t I been saying it enough?”

“No, you—you say it enough.” Dave looked down at him, and touched his knee, hesitantly, and then more firmly, laying his hand on top of it, resting it there, comfortable and warm. 

He looked at Ken, his blue eyes confiding. “It’s just you’ve been reading so much lately, and not for school or anything. Like you can’t wait to get home and close everything and everybody out with a book. And you read at the table sometimes, an’…” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “Just thought you were getting sick of me.”’

“Dave…” Hutch sighed and ran a hand back through his hair. “How can I explain this? It’s not you. It’s everything—and sometimes everyone. It’s just…things are tough for me right now. I can’t explain it. I need to close the world out sometimes. The way I do that is by reading—reading a lot sometimes, probably an unhealthy amount. But it’s what I do.”

“Well, when I wanted to drink, you wouldn’t let me. An’ that’s just a way of shutting everything out, Hutch,” said Starsky reasonably. He looked at Ken expectantly. “So do you need me to take your books away, hm?”

“No, Davey.” He put a hand on Dave’s knee. “I need you to give me some space.”

“Oh. Okay.” Dave looked down, nodding hard, swallowing. “Of course.”

“But not too much space.” Hutch clapped a hand on Starsky’s shoulder, waited until he looked up at him, and then smiled. “Because that wouldn’t be good for me either.”

Dave’s smile, hesitant, returned. “Yeah. Don’t want you to get to be a book addict.” His smile tilted up on one side.

#

They lay in their beds that night, talking in the dark. 

“Sometimes I just get so tired, Davey. Tired inside. Like all my trying will never be enough, and…what’s the point? I know why they call it a rat race, and I’m not even working a real job yet. I’m busting my rear to get into a good college, and sometimes I just want to…to chuck it all away, and stop trying so hard to please my fath—” He stopped.

“Don’t,” said Dave. “Don’t try so hard, but also don’t chuck anything to get even with your dad. It’s not worth it. Okay, Kenny? You’re smart. Why, I bet you could get into a good college with one hand tied behind your back.”

Hutch sighed. He knew Starsky was right. He shouldn’t just give up. But sometimes… “So what’s going on with you, Davey?”

“Usual.” Ken could almost hear him shrug in the dark.

“Come on. Don’t give me that. I shared my stuff. I can hear your brain working. Spit it out and let me set you straight. I know you’re getting it wrong again.”

“Ken…” Starsky sighed. “I have a right to think what I think.”

“Yeah, but sometimes you’re wrong—and it would spare us both a lot of grief, if you’d just spit it out and let me tell you so.” _Probably thinks again that I’ve had enough of him… Why does this keep coming up?_

“Oo, Kenny’s gonna solve all my problems!”

“Somebody’s got to.”

Dave sighed. “All right, Hutch, you want it? Here it is. I’ve been thinking, even if you do love me, it doesn’t matter.”

“If?!”

Dave continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. “My Ma loved me, and she still sent me away. And my dad loved me, and my auntie, and they died. I’m not sayin’ it’s any of their faults. But… maybe you’re next. On the leaving or dying or sending me away. I guess I’ll deserve it. Already do, as clingy as I’ve been. You’ll say, ‘Okay, Dave, had enough of this, enough of you. I’m going back to my real life. Let’s keep in touch.’”

“Davey…there’s so much wrong with that that I don’t even know where to start.” He wished Dave could get past this, past feeling like he was going to lose Ken.

“I know, Davey’s stupid, stupid Davey,” grumbled Starsky, voice low and grumpy-sounding. He pulled his covers up to his chin and turned away.

“Dave…” said Hutch more gently. Quietly, he got out of bed, his bare feet cold against the floor, and crawled in next to Dave. “Okay, Dave. I won’t try to fix it.” He ran a hand back over Starsky’s head. “Not if you don’t want me to. I’ll just stay with you for now.”

“Yeah,” said Dave in a croak, turning and edging sideways to make more room for Ken. “I’d like that.”

#

Hutch suppressed a yawn. Football was all very well, but it could be a little dull. Starsky wasn’t even playing, and nothing had seemed to actually happen for the past several minutes. He snuck a peek down at the book he’d been hiding under his thigh, glanced around—and down at the players’ bench. Starsky still sat there, jittering in place, looking around on the football field, watching everything with interest.

Ken opened his book.

The next thing he knew, there was a loud cheer, and Hutch looked up and around, startled. People were cheering. Down on the field, Dave had just made a touchdown.

Ken slammed his book shut guiltily. _I missed it. I’m a terrible friend. What am I ever going to tell him?_

Dave, standing there on the field, soaking up the adulation, turned and waved at Ken in the stands, his smile a bright wattage even over this distance. Gulping, Ken waved back.

Dave walked to the car with Ken later. “Did you see me make that catch, Ken?”

“Yeah.”

“And those twelve guys I got past?”

“Y-yeah.”

“And the tutu I was wearing?” He turned to Ken, wearing a bright, sly smile. “I know, tuches. You were stuck in a book. It’s all right—don’t give me that guilty look.” He gave Ken a shove with his shoulder. “Anyway, you don’t have to be proud of me—this time, I’m proud of myself.”

“Starsk, I am proud. I’m…just sorry I missed it.”

“Tuches,” said Dave again, not disagreeably. “Truth is, I kind of like knowing you don’t like me because of football. Most anyone else who tolerates me, that’s why.” He clapped Ken briefly on the back. “You wanna drive home? My arms are kinda sore.”

Ken looked at him quickly, but he seemed to mean it. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be careful!” He hopped behind the wheel of the car.

#

A flashy red convertible pulled up on the driveway and halfway onto the lawn. The door slammed and a familiar, grinning figure bounded out of the car.

Ken paused in his efforts to shovel the drive, his mouth gaping. “Jack? Jack Mitchell?” He dropped his shovel and walked forward.

“Hutch!” Jack bounced up the drive. He wore his fanciest leather jacket, a nice pair of slacks and new shoes. He looked richer than Hutch remembered, even his smile and the air he breathed seeming to exude wealth and confidence.

“Jack?” Hutch stared into his face for a second, and, beneath the familiar old Jack, saw a hesitation. 

“Hutch!” Jack flung his arms wide in cheerful greeting. “How’s the old pauper doing?”

Hutch gripped his arms and grinned. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“Aw, my old man had to travel for business. I thought I might as well tag along and come see you. I rented this little piece of car for the trip. Do you want to take it for a spin?”

“Uh—” Ken glanced back at Starsky, who was still working the driveway (slowly). “Do you mind if my buddy comes along?”

“Sure, that’s—”

“No, I’m fine. You two have fun.” Dave lifted a hand in a casual wave, and went back to shoveling.

A few minutes later, Ken was in charge of a large, loud, moving vehicle. Even though it was winter, Jack had the top down. Ken’s cheeks and nose felt frozen. He didn’t know how Jack could look so comfortable, the way he always did. 

The silence stretched loud, even over the roaring of the road. If this had been Dave, Ken would’ve had all sorts of questions to ask. But he and Jack had always talked mostly about outward things, not how they were doing on the inside.

“So, how have you been?” shouted Ken over the wind. 

“Great! I’m dating Angie now!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

The silence stretched again, interminable. “Seen anything of my dad?” asked Ken.

“No. You should see the boat we’re getting. Fifty foot if it’s an inch. Think you’ll be home in time to go sailing with me?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. Have you…heard anything about…Jenny?”

“She’s gone. No idea. Everybody’s got a different story—same as they do on you.” He glanced at Hutch. “I haven’t said anything.”

“I know,” said Hutch. He and Jack might not be the same kind of friends as he and Starsky, but they knew who they could trust. 

“Still thinking about being a lawyer?” said Ken.

“Nah, I’m thinking…medical school. A doctor, you know?”

They talked a little more, but it was hard over the roaring of the wind—and Jack seemed more comfortable when they discussed old school acquaintances, past adventures, and cars. He left the subject of girls pretty much alone, out of respect for Hutch’s and Jenny’s situation.

Eventually, Hutch said, “Well, I have to get back.”

“Sure. Turn her around.”

Ken made it home safely, even with the feeling gone from his hands (despite his gloves). He parked better than Jack had, and they climbed out. Starsky was gone. _I hope he’s not upset…_

Hutch nodded towards the house, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Want to come in?”

Jack checked his pocket watch. “No, I’d better go. Don’t want the old man going berserk.”

“Yeah.” Ken smiled at him. “Thanks for coming, Jack. It was great to see you.”

“Hey.” Jack sobered. “Do you need anything? Money?” He reached towards his wallet.

Ken blinked. “No, I’m good.” 

“Okay, well, I’ll see you. Take care of yourself, Hutch.”

“Thanks, Jack.” Hutch wanted to hug him, but he knew it would probably make Jack uncomfortable. So he gave him a quick clap on the shoulder instead and grinned at him. 

He watched Jack roar down the road, and waved. _Hope he keeps it under the limit out here. Snow and cops and…oy._

He turned back slowly towards the house, and walked up the newly shoveled and swept steps.

Dave stood in the kitchen, helping Aunt Hazel, chopping carrots. Hutch smirked at the sight of him in a flowery apron. He walked up behind Dave and tickled his ribs. Dave turned. “Hey, watch it man! I’ve got a knife!”

“Ooh, I’m scared.”

“Not _you_. Don’t wanna cut myself.” He gave Ken a swat on the side with his free hand.

He didn’t say anything about Jack, and he didn’t act any different that day. 

But that night, he crawled into bed with Hutch, and pulled his arms around him possessively tight. “My red car’s gonna be better,” he said.

“Oh, you were jealous?” Ken gave Dave’s head an affectionate rub.

Dave drew back, with a good imitation of an offended look on his face. “Me? Jealous?”

“You are. You’re jealous!” Ken laughed, and rubbed a hand on Dave’s chest.

Dave kept up the offended look for five whole seconds—before he joined Ken in a rueful laugh. 

“Well, come on, Kenny. You didn’t exactly trade up in the best friend department. Could you have traded down any farther? He’s got everything. Good looks, great car, money, confidence—and a history with you, don’t forget that.” He shrugged. “What were you thinking, throwing your lot in with—with a homeless thug like me?”

“Thug?” Ken hugged him closer. “Who’s been calling you a thug? Yeah, Jack is my friend, but…it’s not the same, Davey. I can’t talk to him the way I can with you. Don’t get to feeling down on yourself. And please don’t try to compare yourself to him. I’m glad Jack came to visit, but don’t let it make you second-guess _our_ team. Because that is never in question. Never.”

He hugged Dave closer, giving him a tight squeeze. He could feel Dave loosen in his arms, his muscles going slack and relaxed in the hug.

“That’s what I figured,” said Starsky. Ken smirked at the casually confident note in his voice—the one he knew was almost certainly faked. 

He rubbed Dave’s shoulder. “Yeah. Sure you did, buddy.”

Chapter twelve

“Davey, look!”

Ken held out the envelope, his eyes burning. He tapped the postmark. 

Dave looked down at it, and blinked. “Who’s writing to you without a return address?”

“Jenny!”

“J—” Dave did a double-take. “Really? This is from the famous Jenny?” He looked down at the address with renewed interest. “Well, she got your address right, anyway.”

“Yeah, I made sure she got it, in case she got a chance to write. And now she finally did! Isn’t it great? I can go to her.” He grinned, too widely, trying not to start bawling or something, trying to make the pounding of his heart slow down. For months, nothing, and now—

“Kenny, calm down.” Dave pulled him to the front step, and they both sat down. 

Ken pushed his knees together, and then apart, and then together, hands on them. “She didn’t give me her address, but—but maybe I can find her from the postmark,” he mumbled. “I can pack up a bag, hitchhike there—it’s less than a hundred miles away. I thought it’d be more.”

“Kenny, why don’t you read the letter?” said Dave gently. “Maybe she’ll say where she is.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Ken kept his head down. He held the letter out to Dave.

Dave opened it, unfolded the paper, and began, in a halting voice, to read.

Dear Ken,

I’m sorry I haven’t written but I didn’t know what to say. My aunt has taken me in—I wasn’t sent to the nuns after all. It’s been hard but we understand each other now. I think she disliked me so much at first because she was never able to have children, and she wanted them, whereas I—

If I know you, you’re still willing to marry me. Well, Ken, I have to be blunt and say I don’t want that.

Here, Starsky’s voice stumbled.

“Let me see that!” Hutch grabbed the paper. His eyes scanned the lines disbelievingly. The handwriting was her own. These were Jenny’s words.

He finished the rest on his own.

It’s harder being pregnant than you’d think. I don’t know if I’ll get my figure back, but I hope to try. The baby will be better off with people other than us for parents, Ken. I think we’re both too young. I know I am.

My parents are going to send me to finishing school in Switzerland, after I have the baby. I’m also going to France, for a trip with my aunt. We get along better now.

I won’t leave you an address, because I’m not ready to hear from you. Also I don’t want you to show up on the doorstep. I still feel like I don’t know what to say to you, and maybe I never will. I’m sorry it’s over, but I almost wish I’d never met you.

Take care of yourself.

Jenny Parker

Ken put down the letter and chewed on his lip. “I guess that says it all.” 

He left the letter on the front step, and walked out onto the backyard. It was coated with snow, the kind that melts then refreezes and looks glazed. The footprints that marred the snow had melted and refrozen too, and now looked weirdly huge, as if Bigfoot had stomped through the backyard, instead of Ken and Dave.

Starsky joined him. “Dunno what to say, Hutch.”

“Don’t say anything then.” Ken’s mouth was tight. He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, twiddled his fingers and swallowed.

“How ‘bout sorry?” Dave stood there for a moment, and then his hand landed lightly on Hutch’s arm. He gave it a rub, then retreated back to the house.

Hutch walked. He walked through the snow, picking his way down to the tree line and beyond, until the sky was turning glorious sunset colors. He got cold, and turned around, and didn’t care, and only started to head back at dusk.

Starsky met him halfway home, carrying a flashlight. Its beam bobbed up and down and came to rest on his face. “Kenny?”

Hutch squinted, and raised his hand. “Move that thing.”

“Sorry.” Starsky lowered the beam. “Brought your coat.” He held it out. “Thought you’d be back sooner. I should’ve come sooner.”

“I needed to be alone.” Ken shrugged into his coat, his teeth clacking together.

“That’s what I thought.”

They started back together, neither talking.

“You know what the worst thing is?” said Ken, abruptly, when he could see the house with its comforting gingerbread-house outline, and the warm, lit windows, filtered by curtains.

“What?” Dave turned to look at him.

“I’m—glad. In between all the other things that ran through my head when I…I read it…I was glad. She doesn’t love me, maybe she never did. And maybe I’ll never see our baby. But…I’m glad I’ll never have to marry her. I was scared stiff.”

“’Course you were. You’re sixteen.” Dave’s hand clapped reassurance on his shoulder.

“I thought I loved her. And what about the baby?”

“It’ll be better off with grownups for parents.”

Ken took a shaky breath. “Yeah. I hope so. I just—I hope so.”

“It will. I promise.”

Hutch turned and gave him an ironic look. “You can’t promise about a thing like that.”

Starsky hooked an arm around his neck. “I can. I just did.” He gave Hutch a little jostle. “Oh, and by the way? Next time you decide to hitchhike across the country, let’s just take my car instead, okay?”

“Okay,” said Hutch. His feet took him up the steps, followed closely by Dave. They stomped the snow off their boots and walked inside, where it was warm and smelled of cooking. Ken realized how hungry he was, and how glad, after all, to be alive.

#

“Ken.” Dave rolled towards him without actually leaving his bed. They’d pushed their beds right together, so there was plenty of room for sleep, but could be close to each other if they wanted, too. 

“I figured it out. I’ve been thinking it about it wrong.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I’ve been so needy, and I’ll try to cut that out.”

Ken yawned. They’d barely turned out the lights, but he was really tired tonight, after a hard day of school, shoveling snow, reading aloud, and getting beaten by Starsky in a snowman building competition. Plus he’d been a little extra tired lately for some reason. 

“Dave? You’re gonna have to start over again. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh. Sorry. Um, what I meant was…see, I’ve been thinking about this wrong.”

“Yeah. Got that bit. What’s ‘this?’”

“Um…thinkin’ I’m gonna lose you. I’m…not gonna focus on that anymore. Just enjoy you while I have you, you know? Make every day count, because… because when I think about the future, and the fact that I’m gonna lose you eventually…it makes me unhappy, and that makes you unhappy. And I don’t want to make us unhappy. So I’m gonna knock it off, okay, Hutch?” He reached across and thunked him lightly on the arm. “I’m just gonna be glad while it lasts.”

Ken was silent for a moment, blinking, staring at the ceiling. His mouth twitched a little, painfully. _I can’t say anything, can I? He’s never going to believe I won’t abandon him._

The thought made him immensely sad—like there was a part of Starsky he could never reach, a fear and insecurity he could never fix.

“I guess it’s happened to you too much, huh buddy? People leaving. You feeling abandoned. You just can’t believe that I’m not going to…”

“Oh, not on purpose.” Dave reached out and touched his elbow. “You hear me? I know it’s not on purpose. Just…people can’t always…control stuff. And you said yourself…”

“Yeah. I know.” Hutch sounded hoarse. “I’m starting to wish I’d never said that. I managed to scare you and…I’m sorry.”

“Kenny…stop that. You’re thinking everything’s your fault again! Anyway, I’m just trying to tell you…I’m not going to be so clingy.”

“You mean like sitting on my lap and asking me to say ‘I love you?’”

“Yeah. That.” Starsky sounded embarrassed; his accent got stronger.

“So we’ve got to be all manly and tough with one another now? I can’t pet your head anymore, I suppose?”

“I didn’t say _that_ …”

“And how about curling up next to me when we read? Are you going to stop doing that, too?”

“No.” Dave sounded embarrassed. Good! What was he thinking, saying he wasn’t going to be needy anymore?

“Dave, if you’re needy—then be needy. Don’t…fake anything for me, okay? Don’t put on your tough guy act for me. Okay?”

“Sure, Ken. Sure. I—I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…I don’t want to scare you off, you know, or make us miserable because I’m being too clingy.” He sounded miserable now.

“Davey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it sound like I’m upset with you. How about I be the needy one tonight, and you give me a hug?”

Dave snorted, gently. “Please. You haven’t been needy in awhile. You’re getting over Jenny and everything.”

Dave could read him too well. “Well, come give me a hug anyway, Davey. It’s kind of cold, and I don’t want you feeling sad.”

“Ken…you don’t have to baby me, honest.” But he crawled over, and climbed in next to Ken, anyway. His feet were cold.

#

“You’re sure you boys will be okay?” Aunt Hazel looked at them again, pulling on her gloves.

“Yes, auntie. We’ll be fine.” Hutch suppressed a yawn. He was tired this morning, wished it wasn’t Monday. Truth was, he’d been feeling a little ‘off’ for the past several days—tired all the time, just not quite right.

She laid a hand against his forehead. “You feel a little flushed. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, Auntie. I probably just drank too much tea.”

“Okay, okay. We’re going now. You boys be good!”

Ken and Dave stood in the doorway and waved. 

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” said Ken, quietly. 

Dave waved widely, wearing his big, charismatic smile. “Well, I do,” he said in an undertone, out of the side of his face.

“No drinking, though, okay?”

“I already promised, bozo.”

“Don’t let anyone make a mess. They’re trusting us.”

“I told you. They’ll never know anyone was here. It’ll be a quiet party. Now go on, go to school, you goody-two-shoes.” He gave Hutch a shove. 

Hutch stumbled forward. He turned and pointed his finger at Dave, trying to look stern. 

Dave just grinned. “I’ll be good, Kenny. Quit being a worrywart.”

Hutch didn’t stop feeling flushed all the way through school. He seemed to be running a fever, but he toughed it out, telling himself he could rest later. 

The classrooms were sparse; students had played hooky to go to Davey’s party.

Ken finally made it home. Several cars clogged the driveway and the street; he had to park Dave’s car on the street and walk around the other cars. He dragged his heavy feet up the stairs. 

Inside, the record player blared at its highest volume. He looked around at the kids who were drinking punch, eating cookies, and dancing or talking. One couple sat on the couch, kissing. The living room was crowded. How many people did Dave know, anyway?

Ken started up the steps. He’d just lay down for a bit, and then he’d feel better. His eyelids felt heavy. Soon he’d be in his nice, soft bed…

He pushed the door open, and saw—Dave, sitting on a bed (they’d been pushed apart again), kissing a girl. The teens broke apart at Ken’s entrance, and Dave gave Ken a very speaking look, almost a glare. 

Ken raised his hands and retreated. _Great_. He sighed, as he closed the door. All he wanted to do was lay down and rest. Now he couldn’t. _I suppose Aunt and Uncle’s room…_ But even as he thought that, someone changed the record and it began to blare even louder. He wouldn’t have thought that was possible. Ken winced. No way would he be able to rest with that thing on. 

He massaged his head. There was something you did for a fever…what was it? He couldn’t remember right now. Everything felt fuzzy, and it was hard to think.

_I know._ He headed back out of the house and outside. The cold air felt nice against his flushed face. He walked to the Blaines’ house. 

He knocked, but no one answered so he pushed the door open, and started in. “Hello? Mrs. Blaine?” He massaged his head again, and sighed, leaning in the doorway. “I just…really need…” His voice trailed off. Of course. She’d gone to visit her mother this week, hadn’t she? And, of course, Mr. Blaine was still at work. 

_I’ll just come in and lay down on their couch._ Ken closed the door behind him, pulled off his shoes, and lay down. It was hot. Why was it so hot in here? If he could open a window…but no, they wouldn’t want him wasting their heat, adding to the energy bill. He sat up, and pulled off his outer shirt instead.

A couple of hours later, he lay flushed, in nothing but his boxers, dazed and half asleep on the couch. He felt miserable, like he was stuck in a bad dream, when the door opened. It barely registered with him. He rolled over, towards the wall, and rubbed his face with one hand. “Mumflestarf,” he said.

“Ken?” said Mr. Blaine, his voice rising in disbelief. “What are you…?”

Ken rolled over. He stared sleepily up at the tired-looking cop in his uniform. Mr. Blaine stared at him, looking really upset somehow.

“Cover up,” said Blaine sharply. He grabbed one of Ken’s shirts off the end of the couch and tossed it onto him, roughly. “What are you _doing_ here?” 

Blaine was mad at him. Why was Blaine mad?

“’m sorry,” he mumbled, pulling the shirt up over himself, tears pricking his eyes. “’m feeling sick. Needed somewhere to lie down. Dave’s having a party.”

“A party?” Blaine stared at him. “What kind of trouble—” He broke off. “No, I take it back. This is Dave we’re talking about.” He sighed. “All right. What’s wrong with you?”

“Fever. Headache.” Ken stared dully up at the cop. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay. I’ll get you some aspirin and a glass of water.” Blaine’s heavy, tired steps took him out to the kitchen.

“Here,” said Blaine gruffly a few moments later. “Sit up and take this.” He dumped two aspirin’s in Ken’s hand, keeping his own carefully above, so he wouldn’t touch him. He shoved a glass of water into Ken’s other hand.

Hutch’s eyes filmed over again. “I’m not filthy, you know. I’m not gonna give you the plague.” He gulped back the pills and water, feeling shaky and strange inside, his head whirling from the headache.

“All right. I’m sorry.” Blaine moved to touch his forehead, and frowned. “I’d better take your temperature. I hope you don’t need to go to the hospital.”

He brought a thermometer, and told Ken not to talk around it. Then he shook it out, held it up, and frowned at the numbers. “Hm. Not too bad. I think you’re safe if you take it easy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a party to break up.”

His heavy steps took him out of the house again, and Ken lay down and fell asleep.

Two pairs of footsteps returned. “Kenny?” said Dave’s voice, sounding concerned. He knelt by Ken, and rubbed his arm. “Blaine says you’re sick. Why didn’t you say something?” He pushed the damp hair off Ken’s hot forehead, and laid his hand there. 

“Davey,” mumbled Ken, leaning gratefully against him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Hutch?” Starsky’s voice cracked.

“Didn’t want to wreck your party,” he mumbled.

“Come on, buddy. Get your pants on. Let’s get you home.”

“Home sounds good.” He sat up, and let Dave help him gets his feet through his pant legs. Blaine wandered off somewhere, and Starsky helped him walk home, and got him upstairs and into bed. 

“Open the window, Davey,” mumbled Ken, kicking his covers off. 

“Ken… It’s cold out, okay? You don’t need to get sicker.”

“It’s hot. And it smells of perfume.” He squinted up at Davey, pointedly.

“Er, sorry about that. I’ll open it.” He moved across, and slid the window up. “There, ya happy?” he growled. “Now get to sleep, bozo.” He walked over, pushed the hair off Ken’s damp forehead. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice you were sick.” He stood there a moment, stroking Ken’s hair, until his eyelids fell shut. “Sorry,” Ken heard him whisper again, just before drifting off into the grayness of sleep.

Chapter thirteen

The next day Ken shuffled out to the kitchen in his pajamas, yawning, to get himself an orange. Dave moved immediately to his side. “What are you doing? You need something? Tell me to get it. Why do you think I gave you that bell?”

“Had to pee anyway. I’m doing better, Davey. Would you relax?” He pushed a hand up over Dave’s curls, giving him a little shove and a smile. “You don’t have to wait on me hand and foot—anymore.”

“Just hand, then?” Dave slid his arms around Ken’s waist and pulled him close, smiling at him. “Come on. I’ll get it.”

“Okay.” Ken smiled back. He turned to the sink to get a glass of water. Just then, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get that.”

“You don’t need visitors yet.”

“It’s probably Blaine checking on us—making sure you haven’t started any more wild parties.”

Dave stuck his tongue out, knelt in front of the fridge, and pulled open the fruit drawer.

Ken opened the front door. A big, angry-looking man stood there. “Where’s David?” he growled. He was dark haired with large, powerful arms and curly hair and beard. He looked powerful as a bear, and very tall. Ken smelled a strong alcoholic smell waft from him.

“Uh…who are you?” Ken stood there, feeling stupid in the doorway, letting cold air in. He realized he was wearing pajamas, and they weren’t a very good guard against the outside world—and the man who just might be Starsky’s uncle.

“Ken,” said Dave, sounding desperate. “Shut the door!”

But it was too late. The man grabbed the door, and shoved it open. He knocked Ken aside as easily as if he were made of straw, and charged into the house. His heavy steps seemed to make the floor shake. Ken fell, sliding down against the sink and sitting on the floor, shaken, odd feeling in the head, as if he were watching something from farther away than the same room.

“Hey!” Dave started forward with a glare at the sight of Ken being shoved aside.

“Hey what?” growled the big bear man, grabbing Starsky by the flannel shirt, and hauling him up so his feet actually left the ground.

“Uh…” Dave glanced past his shoulder at Ken, helplessly. “Nothin’.”

“Nothing is right. You’re coming home, boy. I’m not having you raised by goyim.”

And with that he turned and left the room, dragging Dave after him like a rag doll. Dave didn’t struggle. His eyes caught Ken’s on the way out, and he sent one clear thought transmission. _Help!_

_Blaine,_ mouthed Ken in reply, nodding. He rubbed the back of his head.

The door slammed, and he heard a car door, next. He moved to the door, and glanced out to see a battered blue car rolling away. He felt a bit shaky on his feet. How hard had the man hit him, anyway? He might as well have knocked a few sticks out of his path for all he’d seemed to notice Ken. But he still felt a little wonky from the single blow. Or maybe from being sick. He hadn’t been out of bed more than twice today.

Gulping, trying to pull his head together, Ken moved to the telephone. He had to try twice to call the police station—he misdialed the first time. 

“Hello. I need to speak to Officer John Blaine. Well, could you patch me through? It’s very important. Yes, he knows me. Tell him it’s Ken Hutchinson calling. Ken Hutchinson. I’m—calling about…nephew abuse. I think. Just…tell him it’s about Dave. Dave’s in trouble. Tell him, ‘help.’” 

Ken realized he was babbling, but he didn’t know what else to do. He slid down the couch to sit on the floor, and ran a hand back through his hair. And his mind seemed to wander away again for a few moments, as if he were still in the grip of his bad fever. 

Poor Dave. With an uncle like that, no wonder he had trouble trusting people.

“Hello? Ken? Is this a prank?” Blaine’s voice was getting angry when Hutch finally noticed it.

“Um, sorry. It’s me. Dave…Dave’s uncle came and dragged him out. I think he’s going to hurt him. Please go and save him.” He hoped he was making sense.

“Just a second. Dave’s uncle…? Saul Starsky?”

“Mh-hm. Please, Mr. Blaine. He’s real big. He just knocked me aside and grabbed Starsky and hauled him off. You gotta help him, okay?” Ken turned aside and coughed onto his sleeve. The cough had only started last night, but it felt deeper than it should. For a moment, it shook his whole body.

“All right. Ken, listen to me. My partner and I are heading over there right away. Stay calm and stay indoors. That cough doesn’t sound good. We’ll go rescue Dave. You hear me?”

“Sure. Um, how long…?” He gripped the phone. “…will it take?”

“We’re about a twenty minute drive from there now. With the lights and siren, it will be even quicker. Don’t you worry about a thing. Dave will be all right.”

“Okay.” Ken started to get up, then slid back down to the floor again. He rubbed a hand over his face miserably.

“I’m going to hang up now. You go back to bed, okay?”

“’Kay,” said Ken. He felt tears starting in his eyes, and rubbed at them miserably.

Blaine hung up. Ken sat listening to the dial tone. Had Dave’s uncle really just stormed in and dragged Davey off like some kind of naughty dog?

Ken rubbed a hand over his face. If only he could wake up, feel in control of his facilities, he knew he’d be able to think straighter, and do something. He was fairly sure Dave would’ve known what to do, had the situation been reversed.

Blaine had said to stay here. But he was twenty minutes away. Or something like that. He’d said something like that. The details were already slipping away—all but the fact that Starsky, Starsky was in trouble, and Ken hadn’t rescued him.

He remembered all the times Dave had been afraid—had needed Ken’s backup, in word or deed, or just someone to be near him while he slept. The nights Dave had curled close, needed to be held until he felt safe, needed Ken to protect him, when there was no danger at all. Now, when there was—

_What am I doing here on the floor? Davey needs me._

Ken hauled himself to his feet, and fought a momentary dizziness. He steadied one hand against the couch. _Wow. Maybe I’m not as well as I thought I was…_

He hadn’t been up much today. Dave had been good about making him stay in bed. He’d even called the school for Hutch, not letting him get up and make his excuses himself. He didn’t know if they’d be believed, but he’d promised to try so that Ken wouldn’t worry about it all morning.

_That’s Davey, always looking after me._ Tears filmed his view again. He felt so helpless. _Well, I’m not going to be._

Slow steps brought him out to the kitchen. He put on his coat and boots over his pajamas. Then he pulled open the cutlery drawer and picked out a knife. Holding it pointed down towards the ground, he made his way out to Dave’s car, got in—and shivered. It was colder than he’d thought. He pulled the hat out of his pocket and slipped it on over his messy hair. There was no time for more. He was sitting here, wasting time, when Davey might be getting a beating from his violent, drunken uncle.

He started up the car, and drove. He knew the way; he and Davey had driven past often enough, and it wasn’t far.

Five minutes into the short drive, the car stalled.

_Oh, no, not now. This can’t be happening!_

Ken tried the ignition again, but it wouldn’t restart. Sighing, he got out of the car and began to trudge onwards, knife in his hand still pointed carefully down. He’d learned safety rules.

_Davey’s going to kill me if I’ve broken his car_. Then he thought, _No, no he won’t. He’ll just be glad to see me._

The cold air burned in his chest, and he was shivering by the time he reached the house. He climbed up the steps, feeling shaky and strange inside, and much unprepared to face a stranger, knife or no.

Ken knocked.

_If I was a cop…_ the thought came to him oddly clearly, even through the fog that seemed to fill his brain. If he was a cop, he could have some right to be standing here, instead of just being a scared kid with a kitchen knife, come to rescue his friend.

What must it be like to be a cop like Blaine, standing between good and evil? Someone who could help, could make a difference for all the powerless kids and people in need. Someone with training and skills and bravery. Someone who didn’t feel as helpless and vulnerable and just plain _cold_ as Ken felt right now.

_It must be a great feeling…_

“Mr. Starsky?” called Ken, raising his voice in a croak. He was shaking, and not just from the cold.

The door yanked open and the huge man scowled out at him. “What?”

In spite of himself, Ken took a step back. “Um, give him back.”

“What?” Saul Starsky looked at him like he was crazy. Well, Ken wasn’t the one who’d burst in and hauled Davey away. Although come to think of it, he wanted to do that, now…

“Give Davey back.”

The man caught sight of his knife, and stared at it with a bemused expression. “You’re David’s goy friend.”

“’Golden goy,’ to you,” said Hutch. “Where is he?”

The man belched. “He’s doing his chores—couple months’ worth of chores.” Saul raised a bottle and took another swig. He held onto the door to keep his balance, and frowned at Ken. “You quit hanging around with him. He doesn’t need you. He’s got family.”

“I’m his family,” said Ken. “You’re not. You hit him.” He gripped the knife at his side.

Saul Starsky’s face changed from bored and drunken to rage-filled. He brought a hand back, and smacked Ken across the mouth with it. 

Hutch stumbled backwards, the knife useless in his hand, and tripped and fell back on the porch.

Starsky’s uncle started down them after him, drawing back his bottle in rage, as if to smash it into Hutch’s head. 

“HEY! YOU GET AWAY FROM HIM!” A curly-haired maniac launched himself out the door and onto the big man’s shoulders. Punches flew wildly as Dave hung on and beat at his uncle’s head. Like a bear getting bugged by bees, the man roared and tried to swipe the irritation off.

Ken backed up, and got clumsily to his feet. He reached for the knife, and yanked it up off the porch just before a giant foot came to rest upon it.

“Ken! Get out of here!” shouted Dave. 

Saul Starsky shook David free, and he fell back against the door with a loud thump. Saul drew a punch back to throw.

“Leave him alone!” Ken started forward, knife pointed at the big man. His head was whirling and feeling very strange now. 

Dave’s uncle turned, saw him, and drew back a hand. He smacked Ken across the face as easy as breathing. Hutch hadn’t even had time to work up his nerve about the knife—or brace himself for the blow. He collapsed. 

Saul Starsky man turned back to Dave. “Disrespect me, will you, whelp?” He bent over Dave. Ken heard a dull thud. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t get up, his head rang and his legs had given out. 

“Dave, Dave…” he mumbled, feeling sick and like he had to throw up, and as if his head would burst. He held a hand to his jaw and his vision, already blurred, blurred further. Another blow, and he heard a sound from Dave—a sound that would haunt him for a long, long time—a swallowed, cut off cry. The sound of Dave in pain.

Then—footsteps pounded up the porch. It sounded like someone almost as big as the uncle. 

“Back away from the boy,” said Blaine’s stern cop voice. He didn’t sound like the friendly neighbor now. He sounded dangerous—and Ken had never heard a more welcome sound.

“Who do you think—” Dave’s uncle turned, pulling Davey up by his shirt. 

_Smack!_

Blaine’s big fist caught him square on the jaw, and he staggered back. His face had a surprised look, as though no one had caught him like that for quite some time. His grip on Dave loosened.

Dave pulled free. He wobbled a little on his feet, and moved to Ken, who was finally sitting up, starting to be able to move.

“Who d’you think you are?” Saul drew back a fist, hate on his face, and aimed a clumsy blow at Blaine.

“A cop.” Blaine’s fists caught him again, _thump thump_ , this time on his chest. Another blow to his face and the man thumped back against the wall. He slid down it, a surprised look on his face as he held his jaw. 

Blaine shook out his fist. “And I’m a better man than you’ll ever be. At least I don’t hurt young boys.”

Dave, Ken, and the other cop stared at Blaine, and blinked.

_When was that ever in question?_ thought Ken. _Of course you’re better than he is._

Blaine turned to look at his partner. “Well? Are you going to help me clean this mess up?” He jerked his head towards Mr. Starsky. The cop moved up the steps to join him.

“Kenny.” Dave dropped to his knees and put an arm around Ken. 

“Davey.” Ken reached a hand up to touch the side of his face. 

Dave winced sideways from the touch. He was bleeding, one eye swollen, one side of his mouth thick and the color of grape jelly. He spoke thickly, and as if only barely holding back tears. 

“Hutch. You weren’t supposed to come. Why do you think I went with him? Didn’t want him to get violent with you around. You weren’t supposed to get hurt.” He rested his head against Ken and held onto him, gripping Ken’s coat and squeezing a handful of it tightly, swallowing hard.

“Had to protect you,” mumbled Ken, patting his back weakly, awkwardly. “Didn’t do a very good job.”

“And you, young man.” Blaine knelt by Ken, his voice fake-fierce. “I thought I told you to stay home? Dave.” His voice got gentler as he pried Dave free from Hutch. “I have to see. Let me look. How badly are you hurt?” His fingers were gentle and expert as he turned Dave’s chin this way and that. 

Dave winced and didn’t look him in the eye. He wiped at his eyes quickly, and sniffed, glancing first at Ken, then at Blaine. “He doesn’t usually hit me that hard.”

“Your ribs? Anywhere else?” 

Davey shook his head. “N-nothing too bad.”

“You’ll have to be seen by a doctor, and photographed. By the way, since you’re underage, you don’t have the option to drop the charges. The state _will_ prosecute your uncle.” Blaine sounded grim again.

“A-all right,” said Dave. “Only—does my mom have to know?”

Blaine laughed without humor. “Yes, Dave, I think your mom has to know.” He brought a hand up and gently ruffled Dave’s hair, then stood.

Dave caught sight of the knife still clutched in Ken’s hand. “Kenny…?” He pried it gently free, and looked at him. “What did you think you were going to do with your aunt’s bread knife?”

Ken stared dully down at the rounded, un-pointy knife. “It’s the sharpest knife in the house. I cut myself on it once.” He rubbed its flat blade with his thumb.

“And you were what, going to nick my uncle? Perhaps g-give it to him and hoped he’d cut himself when he went t-to cut some bread?” Dave’s voice bubbled with slightly hysterical laughter.

“I guess I wasn’t thinking too clearly,” admitted Ken.

“I guess neither of you were,” said Blaine, helping the boys to their feet. “You—not staying home. You—provoking him with an ill-timed attack instead of waiting for the cavalry.”

“Had to. He was gonna hurt Ken!”

“I couldn’t stay home,” mumbled Hutch at the same time. “Hadda protect Davey…”

“And see what a good job you both did. We’re police officers for a reason. You’re not. Now come on, boys. We’ve got a little trip to make.”

He was kind to them, and drove them to the police station in the patrol car, making Dave’s uncle wait for another one.

Chapter fourteen

When Starsky came back from seeing the doctor and getting his wounds photographed, his walk was cocky, and he wore his most sullen expression. He looked like a young tough being taken in for interrogation—all that lacked was the handcuffs. He even held his hands out in front, as if expecting those any time.

Hutch, sitting in the waiting area wrapped in Blaine’s coat over his own, sitting miserably in his pajama pants, a cough rattling his chest from time to time, stood up as soon as he saw Dave’s face, and held his arms open. Dave’s steps quickened, and some of his tough veneer slipped. For a second, his face looked wobbly, near tears. He flung himself against Hutch, hard, and hugged with all his strength.

They stood like that, leaning on each other, breathing into each other’s shoulders, holding on for dear life. 

Someone pulled on their shoulders. “Excuse me. It’s your turn.” They pried Hutch free, and pulled him down the hall. He looked back, stumbling over his boots, and watched Dave’s face grow longer, and his shoulders bow.

Hutch’s examination didn’t take long, and there was only a quick photograph of both sides of his face. The doctor made him cough a lot, though. It hurt. He walked out with Hutch, threading his stethoscope around his neck again. “Sit down, boy.” He pressed Ken towards a seat.

“Is he ready to be questioned, doctor?” said Blaine. 

Dave followed, his expression a little lighter, although his face still hurt to look at—so beaten up—and he still looked like he was having the worst day he’d had in some time. 

“It won’t take long. Just a few questions,” said Blaine.

“I’m afraid not,” said the doctor. “This boy has pneumonia. He needs to stay in the hospital.”

“What?”

They all turned to stare at him.

“Kenny?” Dave walked forward and put a hand on Ken’s shoulder, and looked into his eyes.

“Dave,” mumbled Ken, and leaned his head against Dave’s chest. He was just so tired, and he wished the room would stop spinning.

“Come on, young man. We’ll see about a room for you.” The doctor led him away.

#

Hutch had plenty of time to think over the next few days. He had little to do in the hospital. His aunt and uncle visited him as soon as they returned from their trip (and exclaimed and scolded over everything that had happened). 

Dave wasn’t allowed to visit because he wasn’t family.

Some of the time Ken was too sick to care. But once he started feeling better, he missed the curly headed scamp who could always cheer him up. He missed Dave crawling into bed with him and curling close. He missed Dave stealing his food and quoting to him from his amazing facts book (the one Ken had quickly regretted buying), and telling him jokes that weren’t funny, and playing with his hair, and just being here.

_I’m going into Starsky withdrawal,_ he thought, and laughed at the thought, a stark, humorless sound. Then he punched his pillow—ostensibly to get it into a better shape.

He also thought a lot about what had happened—everything that had gone down with Starsky’s uncle, and the powerless feeling he’d had when he stood on the porch with the breadknife. He never wanted to feel that way again. 

And yet…he thought of Blaine, charging up the stairs to the rescue, mad and perhaps scared, but not backing down—and not letting Starsky’s uncle win.

_That’s what I want_. _I want to help people like that. I want to be strong and—and good, and save the day._

The thought gave him pause. Could he really be a cop? His dad would never approve—it certainly wasn’t on the list of Hutchinson approved jobs. Not enough money involved. But Ken knew—firsthand, now—that cops made a difference. 

What would have happened to Dave and Ken, if the cops hadn’t shown up when they did? Starsky and Hutch weren’t a match for Saul Starsky, especially with Ken sick. And Dave’s uncle had been giving Dave a pretty terrible beating when Blaine showed up. 

Dave had been hurt bad—and could’ve been hurt worse. Ken wanted to see his face again, so he wouldn’t have to picture it the way he’d last seen it. Surely Dave had started to heal, by now.

It came back to him in his dreams sometimes, Dave getting hit, and the sound he’d made.

It was a week and a half before Starsky got in to see him—and even then, only for a few minutes.

“Hutch.” Starsky stopped in the doorway, a stunned look on his face at the sight of Ken.

“Starsky.” Hutch stared back just as hard. He looked thin and stressed. He wore a flannel shirt—one of Ken’s—and his regular jeans and sneakers. The flannel shirt was built for Ken’s frame, so it hugged Dave rather too tightly across the chest. Somehow, he still managed to look small and forlorn in it. His face was healing, but still hurt to look at. The bruises were turning yellow in spots, the swollenness going down but not completely gone.

“Ken.” Starsky stepped forward impulsively, as though he couldn’t keep back another moment. He moved to the bed, and touched Hutch’s arm, sliding his fingers up and down it. “You’re so thin.”

“You too.” Ken turned a little in bed and smiled up at him, gripping his arm, hard—at least as hard as he was able.

“Are you—you eating?” said Starsky in a small, choked voice.

“I’m trying to. I miss you,” said Ken, impulsively honest, despite the presence of a nurse, a doctor, and Blaine in the room.

Dave bent over and hugged him, sliding his arms gently, firmly around Hutch. Hutch returned the hug gladly, breathing the familiar smells of Starsky, and home—the detergent his aunt used; Starsky’s sweat; the slightly spicy smell of the soap Starsky used on his hair. It was so familiar and so unlike the sterile, cold hospital. Hutch could feel his eyes growing damp.

“Davey, don’t leave.”

“Kenny…”

The doctor cleared his throat. “That’s long enough. It’s time for Ken’s medicine.”

“Dave…” Ken kept hold of Dave’s hand as he drew back. His eyes pleaded. _Just a little longer, Davey. Stay._

“Ken.” Starsky smiled at him, with his choking-back-tears look, and gave him a gulping little smile and nod. “You’re okay. You listen to the doctors now. You’ll be well real soon.” He tugged lightly on his hand, and Ken released it. Dave whirled and left the room quickly, almost bumping into both Blaine and the nurse on his way out.

Ken turned his face to the wall, swallowing hard.

After that, they let him see Dave for a couple of minutes every day. Dave sat on the side of his bed, and spoke to him as if Ken were a small boy he was afraid of breaking—until Ken socked him in the arm and told him to straighten out.

Dave brought him gifts—magazines, chocolates, a potted fern to keep him company, a small, stuffed horse, more candy, a couple of his aunt’s cookies, smuggled in a napkin in his pocket (and mostly crumbs by the time they arrived), one of his favorite shirts, and a small picture of Dave, to keep him company. “You just prop that on the table there, and you won’t have to feel alone. I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” said Dave, wearing his cracked and crooked smile.

Towards the end of each visit, limited to fifteen minutes strictly by the doctor and nurses, Ken started to get tired, and didn’t have any more words in him. He just lay there with his hand in Dave’s, listening to his words, soaking up the sound of his voice, and watching his face. At the end of each visit, Dave tucked the covers up closely around him and smoothed the hair gently back off his forehead. Dave’s hand on his head was soothing and gentle, and it always made Ken close his eyes and relax, feeling safe. Sometimes he drifted off before Dave left the room, although he always kept his eyes for as long as he could.

When Dave wasn’t there, Ken thought a lot about this new cop idea. Once it got into his brain, it didn’t seem to want to leave, instead rattling around in there and growing more and more reasons why it would work, and work well. 

Cops helped people. Ken wanted to help people. He could do it—Blaine could recommend him for the academy, when he was old enough, and he could get the training he needed and be on the streets before they knew it. The thought of it actually made growing up sound exciting again. Instead of a wasteland of worry and too-high expectations after high school, he began to see—hope.

The only problem was, Davey. He hated cops—at least, he had. Maybe he’d changed his mind, since Blaine’s daring rescue. But even if he did, how would he feel about his best friend deciding to become one? Ken couldn’t quite bear to bring it up in their too-few minutes together. 

Besides that, he was mostly too tired to talk for long periods at a stretch, and he had a feeling he was going to need all his verbal acuity to convince Starsky this was a good idea.

So he saved up his words, distilled his arguments, mentally practiced tactful conversations, gentle ways to break to Dave his thoughts, and the decision that grew stronger every day.

Finally, he grew strong enough to be released to bed rest and home. His aunt and uncle drove him home while Dave was in school, and tucked him into bed, with a heater running to keep his drafty room warm, and all the cracks around his windows sealed with little wads of paper and cloth.

“Dave did that, to get ready for you.” His aunt tucked him in for the third time, and bent to kiss his forehead. “Rest, Kenny. I’ll bring you some tea and soup later.” She stroked a hand back across his head, and then quietly retreated.

Some indefinite time later, he felt Dave’s eyes on him, and came awake with a start. He looked around—the sun had changed positions, and Dave stood there, just watching him, drinking in the sight. “Hello, Hutch.” He moved forward, and spoke, smiling, and letting his book bag drop to the floor with a thump. “How ya doin’, Blintz?”

“Starsky, get over here,” croaked Ken, fumbling with the covers, and trying to pull back one edge.

“Sure I won’t make you cold?” asked Dave, moving forward, still wearing that gentle, breakable smile.

“If you think I give a—” He broke off with a round of coughing.

“Shh. Shh.” Dave slipped into bed next to him, and curled close, wrapping his arms around Ken’s chest. “Don’t talk. Breathe.” He pressed his face against Ken’s neck, inhaling deeply.

He held Ken for a long time—all the way through his coughs. And through his nap. Ken woke to the sunset coming in his window, and the sure knowledge that Dave’s arms were painfully stiff. “Let me move,” he said, and then, “Your face is looking better.”

“I wish you were,” said Dave, carefully freeing his arms and shaking out his hands. He brought one up gently to touch Ken’s hair, and ruffle it lightly.

Ken smiled at the familiar, comforting touch. “I’ve missed you.”

“You, too. Kenny…” For a moment, he sounded uncomfortable. “I’ve—got to tell you something.” He grimaced slightly. “You know how I hate cops?”

“Yeah?” said Hutch warily.

“Well, I don’t anymore. Blaine saved our asses, and he’s been really…well, he’s been real good to me. I’ve kinda been a basket case with you gone. He’s taken me around the station, let me get a good look at what a cop does—even taken me on a ride-along with him and his partner. It’s a good distraction and—and—there’s a lot of great stuff that goes along with being a cop. You get to have a gun and—you get to rescue people, Ken.”

Ken’s smile lightened until he could almost feel his face glowing. He found himself nodding along, hard.

Dave squeezed his hand, briefly, and looked down. “So I was wondering, well, if you’d think I was an awful hypocrite…if I decide I want to be a cop when I grow up.” He looked up again, nervously, at Ken’s face.

Dave didn’t understand Ken’s shout of laughter—at first. Or the quick hug he pulled him into. But at Ken’s words, whispered in his ear—“You and me both! I decided in the hospital!”—his smile got ridiculously huge, and he gave a whoop, and grabbed Ken in a tight hug. Their laughing and inarticulate shouts brought Ken’s aunt running up the stairs, drying her hands on a towel. 

“What’s the matter, you two? What’s wrong?” Her brow wrinkled in worry. Ken didn’t like the strained look his illness had given her. Well, he’d be well soon, and then he’d help out more, try to take the pressure off her shoulders.

Starsky answered for them both. “We’re going to be cops, Auntie. We’re going to be cops!”

The creases on her face relaxed into a smile. “Well. You’ll be good ones. Let Kenny rest, Dave. I’ll bring the soup up.” Her steps took her slowly back downstairs.

“Cops,” whispered Davey, dancing his fingers up and down Ken’s arm. “We’re gonna be cops, Blintz.”

“I’ll score higher on any tests,” said Ken, smiling at him, hoping Dave would join him in some teasing.

“I’ll shoot better.” Davey’s quick grin was cathartic, and Ken felt his own growing wider, as well.

“I’ll run faster,” said Ken, even though he knew that probably wasn’t true. His eyelids started to grow heavy again, but he didn’t want to miss this.

“I’ll drive better.” Dave gave him a wink, and leaned forward. “Close ‘em, copper. Get some rest.”

“Don’t go anywhere, okay? Not yet,” mumbled Ken, keeping a loose grip on Dave’s arm, even as sleep began to reclaim him.

“Nope,” said Dave. “Not for the rest of your life.”

<<<>>>  
  
---


End file.
